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" The primal duties shine aloft, like stars ; 
The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless, 
Are scattered at the feet of man, like flowers " 

• •■* > i • 



1 90 1 


Primed l>y Bai.lantynk. Hanson 
Al the MaPamync Press 

&- CO. 


Let mine be the frst word in this book, and let it be one 
of appreciation for the assistance that has been given to me in. 
its compilation ; let me tender thanks to all the famous men 
and women of Art and Letters who have so generously given 
its contents, and have thus, while assisting the cause of charity, 
granted me the privilege of realising that the great are the 

Then let me add an acknowledgment of the liberality of 
Messrs. Macmillan c*j- Co., the Lithographers, the Photographers, 
the Printers, and the Paper Manufacturers ; and finally, let me 
thank Mr. William Heinemann for his invaluable counsel, and 
Mr. Marion H. Spielmann for his contributions and help ; and 
then, since asking of favours has become a habit so pleasantly 
confirmed in me by success, I shall appeal to the public to buy 
this book in its thousands, and thus help me to accentuate my 
gratitude to its contributors, and add to the much-needed funds 
of the Charing Cross Hospital. 


Authors and Artists 

Ixeorge Meredith 

livelyn oharpe 

A 1 1 T T 1 A T"i A 

Arthur Hacker, A;R.A. 

Henry James 

Max Beerbohm 

Alfred Parsons, A.R.A. 

Thomas Hardy 

Marie Corelli 

J, T, Nettleship 

W. E. Henley 

Frank Danby 

Henriette Ronner, R.I. 

Austin Dobson 

Gertrude Atherton 

Sir Godfrey Kneller 

Israel Zangwill 

Charles Salaman 

John Leech 

F. Frankfort Moore 

Paolo Tosti 

Van de Velde 

Egerton Castle 

Liza Lehmann 

Randolph Caldecott, R.I. 

Mrs. F. A. Steele 

Prof. Herkomer, R.A, 

Sir Thomas Lawrence, P.R.A. 

Edmund Gosse 
Sarah Grand 
John Davidson 
Robert Hichens 

Hon. John Collier 
Louise Jopling 
Mortimer Menpes, R.I. 
Fred Pegram 

Sir E. Burne- Jones, A-R«A. 
Onslow Ford, R.A. 

Rt?t*n^rn Pa rtfinov rv T 
*-J c i iia i n ± ill ix iLi^c, i\* x. 

Barry Pain 

G. P. Jacomb Hood, R.P.E. 

j, j. onannon, x\,iv,^\.. 

Richard Pryce 

Sir John Millais, P.R.A, 

W. Nicholson, R.S.A. 

H. B. Irving 

W. V. Newman 

Dudley Hardy, R.L 

Percy White 

The Marchioness of Granby 

George Clausen, A.R.A. 

Elizabeth Robins 

H.R.H. Prince Purachatra of 

Joseph Pennell 

Arthur Morrison 


Hamilton Maclure 

Kassandra Vivaria 

Seymour Lucas, R.A. 

Malcolm C. Salamin 

Mrs, Clement Shorter 

Byam Shaw 

Brandon Thomas 

R. E, Francillon 

W, L, Wyllie, A.R.A. 

Mrs. Thomas Henry Huxley 

Gilbert Parker 

Solomon J. Solomon, A.R.A. 

Richard le Galliennc 


The Saint's Afternoon . 
Angel Court — A Poem . 
Painting and Story-Telling 
In La Reine Fiammette — Song 
An Appreciated Rupee . 

A Child's Evening Prayer — Song . 

The " Jardin de ma Tante " . 

The Main Regret — A Poem . 

The Surprising Cure of Lois Perez 

The Be"guinage of Bruges 

R. B. — A Poem . . 

Some Forgotten Criticisms of Edmund 

The Superseded — A Poem 

A Lost Likeness .... 

Merely Beautiful — A Poem . 

Geen Baceler " . 
Hinc Ilia? Lachryma? — A Poem 
To a Girl Singing — A Poem . 
Bartie and His Friends . 

A Child's Whole Duty— A Song . 

One More Unfortunate . 

A Japanese Tree .... 

Smain — A Poem .... 

Henry James 
Austin Dobson 
Egerton Castle . 
John Davidson 
Mrs. F. A. Steel 

J Words by Malcolm C. 

(Music by Paolo Tosti 

Richard Pryce . 
George Meredith 
F. Frankfort Moore 
Gertrude Atherton 
Edmund Gosse 
Kean H. B. Irving 

Thomas Hardy . 
R. E. Francillon 
Barry Pain . 
Elizabeth Robins 
Israel Zangwill . 
W. E. Henley . 
Percy White 

W ords by Robert Louis Stevenson 
Music by Liza Lehmann 
Arthur Morrison- 
Frank Danby 
Robert HlCHENS . 

Salaman . 




2 5 


5 1 



1 20 



The Fairy Cow M*S- Clement Shorter . 

C Words by Brandon Thomas 
Ah! Gentle Nightingale-A Song . . fay Su , M , N 

Letter to a Friend— A Poem .... Sarah Grand . 

Words for a Drawing by Hokusai . . . . Max Beerbohm 
"Tout comprendre c'est tout pardonner" — A Poem Mrs. Thomas Henry Huxley 

Dante as a Love Poet Kassandra VivarTa . 

The Coming of Marguerite— A Poem . . Richard le Gallienne . 
The Soul's Discovery— A Poem . . . Marie Corelli 

Lost Fairy Tales .... . Evelyn Sharp . 

By Farcalladen Moor Gilbert Parker 



of Illustrations 

Her Majesty, the late Queen Victoria . 

Onslow Ford 

. Trontiipiece 

Study of a Head ...... 

Sir E. Burne-J onks 

. Page 

I I 

Lord Beaconsfield ...... 

Randolph Caldecott . 



Clearing Woods, Wye Valley 

Alfred Parsons . 


2 3 

Lady Marjorie Manners . 

The Marchioness of Gr. 

VNI3Y To Jacc page 


A Surly Lioness . . . ' . 

J. T. Nettleshii' . 

. Page 

3 1 

A Study of an Arab Head .... 

Professor Hubert Von 

Herkomer „ 


The Main Regret {Facsimile) .... 

George Meredith 

. To Jace page 

_ O 


A Decoy ....... 

John Collier 

. Page 


"There's always Something" . . . . 

John Leech . 



T. Richmond — An African Piize Fighter 

Sir Thomas Lawrence 

. To face page 

4 s 

Waiting . . ... 

Arthur Hacker . 

. Page 


The Earl of Marchmont .... 

Sir Godfrey Kneller 


May Day 

W. V. Newman 

6 4 

First Sketch for " New Laid Eggs " 

Sir John Millais 


At Shadwell 

Joseph Pennell . 



Sir Henry Irving ...... 

Hamilton Maclure 

. To face page 


A Study 

J. J. Shannon 

■ Page 

S 9 

To a Girl a- singing (Facsimile) 

W. E. Henley 

. To face ptige 


Two Studies of a Head . . . . . 

F. Pegram . 

. Page 


Sketch of a Figure for a " Punch " Drawing . 

Bernard Partridge 



I Rise Early 

William Nicholson- 

. To fan page 


A Recollection ...... 

Dudley Hardy . 


Sketch of a Sea-fight ..... 

William Van de Velde 



A Page from My Sketch Book 

Solomon J. Solomon . 


1 .'i 


List of Illustrations 

A Fine Fellow 

. Byam Shaw . 

■ Page 


Off the Lizard 

. W. L. Wyllie . ' . 

. To face page 


An English Girl 

. Louise Jopling . 

. Page 


Hayston of Bucklaw 

Seymour Lucas 

• • * » 

I 14. 

In the Barn .... 

. George Clausen . 


Dorothy ..... 

. Mortimer Menpes 

. To face page 


A Summer Hour . 

. G. P. Jacomb Hood 

. Page 

1 S3 

A Study of a Kitten 

. Henriette Ronner 



My Father's Palace 

. H. R. H. Purachatra 

OF Siam . , 





The Saint's Afternoon 


Henry James 

EFORE and above all was the sense that, with the narrow 
limits of past adventure, I had never yet had such an 
impression of what the summer could be in the south or 
the south in the summer ; but I promptly foundit, for 
the occasion, a good fortune that my terms of comparison 
were restricted. It was really something, at a time when the stride of 
the traveller had become as long as it was easy, when the seven-league 
boots positively hung, for frequent use, in the closet of the most sedentary, 
to have kept one's self so innocent of strange horizons that the Bay of 
Naples in June might still seem quite final. That picture struck me — a 
particular corner of it at least, and for many reasons — as the last word ; 
and it is this last word that comes back to me, after a short interval, in a 
green, grey, northern nook, and offers me again its warm, bright, golden 
meaning before it also inevitably catches the chill. Too precious, surely, 
for us not to suffer it to help us as it may is the faculty of putting together 
again in an order the sharp minutes and hours that the wave of time has 
been as ready to pass over as the salt sea to wipe out the letters and 
words your stick has traced in the sand. Let me, at any rate, recover a 
sufficient number of such signs to make a sort of sense. 

The May Book 


Far aloft on the great rock was pitched, as the first note, and indeed 
the highest, of the wondrous concert, the amazing creation of the friend 
who had offered me hospitality, and whom more almost than I had ever 
envied any one anything, I envied the privilege of being able to reward a 
heated, artless pilgrim with a revelation of effects so incalculable. There 
was none but the loosest prefigurement as the creaking and puffing little 
boat, which had conveyed me only from Sorrento, drew closer beneath 
the prodigious island — beautiful, horrible, and haunted — that does most, 
of all the happy elements and accidents, towards making the Bay of 
Naples, for the study of composition, a lesson in the grand style. There 
was only, above and below, through the blue of the air and sea, a great 
confused shining of hot cliffs and crags and buttresses, a loss, from near- 
ness, of the splendid couchant outline and the more comprehensive mass, 
and an opportunity — oh, not lost, I assure you — to sit and meditate, even 
moralise, on the empty deck, while a happy brotherhood of American and 
German tourists, including, of course, many sisters, scrambled down into 
little waiting, rocking tubs, and, after a few strokes, popped systematically 
into the small orifice of the Blue Grotto. There was an appreciable 
moment when they were all lost to view in that receptacle, the daily 
"psychological" moment during which it must so often befall the recalci- 
trant observer on the deserted deck to find himself aware of how delightful 
it might be if none of them should come out again. The charm, the 
fascination of the idea is not a little — though also not wholly — in the fact 
that, as the wave rises over the aperture, there is the most encouraging 
appearance that they perfectly may not. There it is. There is no more 
of them. It is a case to which nature has, by the neatest stroke and with 
the best taste in the world, just quietly attended. 

Beautiful, horrible, haunted : that is the essence of what, about itself, 
Capri says to you — dip again into your Tacitus and see why ; and yet, 
while you roast a little under the awning and in the vaster shadow, 
it is not because the trail of Tiberius is ineffaceable that you are most 
uneasy. The trail of Germanicus in Italy to-day ramifies further and 
bites perhaps even deeper ; a proof of which is, precisely, that his eclipse 
in the Blue Grotto is inexorably brief, that here he is, popping out again, 

The Saint's Afternoon 

bobbing enthusiastically nearer, scrambling triumphantly back. The 
spirit, in truth, of his effective appropriation of Capri has a broad-faced 
candour against which there is no standing up, supremely expressive as it 
is of the familiar "love that kills," of the fatal susceptibility of the race. 
If I were to let myself, however, incline to that aspect of the serious case 
of Capri I should embark on strange depths. The straightness and 
simplicity, the classic, synthetic directness of the German passion for 
Italy, make this passion probably the sentiment in the world that is in 
the act of supplying enjoyment in the largest, sweetest mouthfuls ; and 
there is something unsurpassably marked in the way that on this irresis- 
tible shore it has seated itself to ruminate and digest. It keeps the record 
in its own loud accents ; it breaks out in the folds of the hills and on the 
crests of the crags into every manner of symptom and warning. Huge 
advertisements and portents stare across the bay ; the acclivities bristle 
with breweries and "restorations" and with great ugly Gothic names. I 
hasten, of course, to add that some such general consciousness as this 
may well oppress, under any sky, at the century's end, the brooding 
tourist who makes himself a prey by staying anywhere "behind" when 
the gong sounds. It is behind, in the track and the reaction, that he 
least makes out the end of it all, perceives that to visit any one's country 
for any one's sake is more and more to find some one quite other in posses- 
sion. No one, least of all the brooder himself, is in his own. 


I certainly, at any rate, felt the force of this truth when, on scaling 
the general rock with the eye of apprehension, I made out at a point 
much nearer its summit than its base the gleam of a dizzily-perched 
white sea-gazing front which I knew for my particular landmark and 
which promised so much that it would have been welcome to keep even 
no more than half. Let me instantly say that it kept still more than it 
promised, and by no means least in the way of leaving far below it the 
worst of the outbreak of restorations and breweries. There is a road at 
present to the upper village, with which till recently communication was 
all by rude steps cut in the rock and diminutive donkeys scrambling on 
the flints ; one of those fine flights of construction which the great road- 


The May Book 

making " Latin races " take, wherever they prevail, without advertise- 
ment or bombast ; and even while I followed along the face of the cliff 
its climbing consolidated ledge, I asked myself how I could think so well 
of it without consistently thinking better still of the temples of beer so 
obviously destined to adorn its terminus. The perfect answer to that 
was of course that the brooding tourist is never bound to be consistent. 
What happier law for him than this very one, precisely, when on at last 
alighting, high up in the blue air, to stare and gasp and almost disbelieve, 
he embraced little by little the beautiful truth particularly, on this occa- 
sion, reserved for himself, and took in the stupendous picture ? For here 
above all had the thought and the hand come from far away — even from 
ultima Thule, and yet were in possession triumphant and acclaimed. 
Well, all one could say was that the way they had felt their opportunity, 
the rare conditions of the place, spoke of the advantage of some such 
intellectual perspective as a remote original standpoint alone perhaps can 
give. If what had finally, with infinite patience, passion, labour, taste, 
got itself done there, was like some supreme reward of an old dream of 
Italy, something perfect after long delays, was it not verily in tcltima 
Thule that the vow would have been piously enough made and the germ 
tenderly enough nursed ? For a certain art of asking of Italy all she can 
give, you must doubtless either be a rare raffind or a rare genius, a 
sophisticated Norseman or just a Gabriele d'Annunzio. 

All she can give appeared to me, assuredly, for that day and the 
following, gathered up and unrolled there : in the wondrous cluster and 
dispersal of chambers, corners, courts, galleries, arbours, arcades, long 
white ambulatories and vertiginous points of view. The greatest charm 
of all perhaps was that, thanks to the particular conditions, she seemed to 
abound, to overflow, in directions in which I had never yet enjoyed the 
chance to see her so at ease. The important thing was therefore, in 
observation, in reflection, to press the opportunity hard, to recognise that 
as the abundance was splendid, so, by the same stroke, it was immensely 
suggestive. It dropped into one's lap, naturally, at the end of an hour or 
two, the little white flower of its formula : the brooding tourist, in other 
words, could only continue to brood till he had made out in a measure, as 
I may say, what was so wonderfully the matter with him. He was 
simply then in the presence, more than ever yet, of the possible poetry of 
the personal and social life of the south, and the fun would depend much 
— as occasions are fleeting — on his arriving in time, in the interest of that 


The Saint's Afternoon 

imagination which is his only field of sport, at adequate new notations of 
it. The sense of all this, his obscure and special fun in the general 
bravery, mixed, on the morrow, with the long, human hum of the bright, 
hot day and filled up the golden cup with questions and answers. The 
feast of St. Antony, the patron of the upper town, was the one thing in 
the air, and of the private beauty of the place, there on the narrow shelf, 
in the shining, shaded loggias and above the blue gulfs, all comers were to 
be made free. 


The church-feast of its saint is of course for Anacapri, as for any self- 
respecting Italian town, the great day of the year, and the smaller the 
small "country," in native parlance, as well as the simpler, accordingly, 
the life, the less the chance for leakage, on other pretexts, of the stored 
wine of loyalty. This pure fluid, it was easy to feel overnight, had not 
sensibly lowered its level ; so that nothing indeed, when the hour came, 
could well exceed the outpouring. All up and down the Sorrentine pro- 
montory the early summer happens to be the time of the saints, and I had 
just been witness there of a week on every day of which one might have 
travelled, through kicked-up clouds and other demonstrations, to a 
different hot holiday. There had been no bland evening that, somewhere 
or other, in the hills or by the sea, the white dust and the red glow 
didn't rise to the dim stars. Dust, perspiration, illumination, conversa- 
tion — these were the regular elements. " They're very civilised," a 
friend who knows them as well as they can be known had said to me of 
the people in general ; "plenty of fireworks and plenty of talk — that's all 
they ever want." That they were "civilised" — on the side on which 
they were most to show — was therefore to be the word of the whole 
business, and nothing could have, in fact, had more interest than the 
meaning that for the thirty-six hours I read into it. 

Seen from below and diminished by distance, Anacapri makes scarce a 
sign, and the road that leads to it is not traceable over the rock ; but it 
sits at its ease on its high, wide table, of which it covers— and with pic- 
turesque southern culture as well — as much as it finds convenient. As 
much of it as possible was squeezed all the morning, for St. Antony, into 
the piazzetta before the church, and as much more into that edifice as the 


The May Book 

robust odour mainly prevailing there allowed room for. It was the odour 
that was in prime occupation, and one could only wonder how so many 
men, women and children could cram themselves into so much smell. 
It was surely the smell, thick and resisting, that was least successfully to 
be elbowed. Meanwhile the good saint, before he could move into the 
air, had, among the tapers and the tinsel, the opera-music and the pulpit 
poundings, bravely to snuff it up. The shade outside was hot, and the 
sun was hot ; but we waited as densely for him to come out, or rather to 
come "on," as the pit at the opera waits for the great tenor. There were 
people from below and people from the mainland, and people from 
Pomerania and a brass band from Naples. There were other figures at 
the end of longer strings — strings that, some of them indeed, had pretty 
well given way and were now but little snippets trailing in the dust. Oh, 
the queer sense of the good old Capri of artistic legend, of which the 
name itself was, in the more benighted years — years of the contadina and 
the pifferaro — a bright evocation. Oh, the echo, on the spot, of each 
romantic tale. Oh, the loafing painters, so bad and so happy, the con- 
scious models, the vague personalities ! The " beautiful Capri girl " was, 
of course, not missed, though not perhaps so beautiful as in her ancient 
glamour; which none the less didn't at all exclude the probable presence — 
with his legendary light quite undimmed — of the English lord in disguise 
who will at no distant date marry her. The whole thing was there ; one 
held it in one's hand. 

The saint comes out at last, borne aloft in long procession and under 
a high canopy: a rejoicing, staring, smiling saint, openly delighted with 
the one happy hour in the year on which he may take his own walk. 
Frocked and tonsured, but not at all macerated, he holds in his hand a 
small wax puppet of an infant Jesus and shows him to all their friends, to 
whom he nods and bows : to whom, in the dazzle of the sun, he literally 
seems to grin and wink, while his litter sways and his banners flap and 
every one gaily greets him. The ribbons and draperies flutter, and the 
white veils of the marching maidens, the music blares and the guns go 
off, and the chants resound, and it is all as holy and merry and noisy as 
possible. The procession — down to the delightful little tinselled and 
bare-bodied babies, miniature St. Antonys irrespective of sex, led or 
carried by proud papas or brown grandsires — includes so much of the 
population that you marvel there is such a muster to look on — like the 
charades given in a family in which every one wants to act. But it is all 


The Saint's Afternoon 

indeed, in a manner, one house, the little high-niched island community, 
and nobody therefore, even in the presence of the head of it, puts on an 
air of solemnity. Singular and suggestive before everything else is the 
absence of any approach to our notion of the posture of respect, and this 
among people whose manners in general strike us as so good and, in 
particular, as so cultivated. The office of the saint — of which the festa is 
but the annual reaffirmation — involves not the faintest attribute of 
remoteness or mystery. 

While, with my friend, I waited for him, we went for coolness into 
the second church of the place, a considerable and bedizened structure, 
with the rare curiosity of a wondrous pictured pavement of majolica, the 
garden of Eden done in large coloured tiles or squares, with every beast, 
bird and river, and a brave diminuendo^ in especial, from portal to altar, of 
perspective, so that the animals and objects of the foreground are big and 
those of the successive distances differ with much propriety. Here in 
the sacred shade the old women were knitting, gossiping, yawning, 
shuffling about ; here the children were romping and "larking " ; here, in 
a manner, were the open parlour, the nursery, the kindergarten and the 
conversazione of the poor. This is everywhere the case by the southern 
sea. I remember, near Sorrento, a wayside chapel that seemed the scene 
of every function of domestic life, including cookery and others. The 
odd thing is that it all appears to interfere so little with that special 
civilised note — the note of manners — which is so constantly touched. It 
is barbarous to expectorate in the temple of your faith, but that doubtless 
is an extreme case. Is civilisation really measured by the number of 
things people do respect ? There would seem to be much evidence 
against it. The oldest societies, the societies with most traditions, are 
naturally not the least ironic, the least blastes, and the African tribes who 
take so many things into account that they fear to quit their huts at night 
are not the fine flower. 


Where, on the other hand, it was impossible not to feel to the full 
all the charming riguardi — to use their own good word — in which our 
friends could abound, was, in the afternoon, in the extraordinary temple of 
art and hospitality that had been benignantly opened to me. Hither, 


The May Book 

from three o'clock to seven, all the world, from the small, in particular, to 
the smaller and the smallest, might freely flock, and here, from the first 
hour to the last, the huge straw-bellied flasks of purple wine were tilted 
for all the thirsty. They were many, the thirsty, they were three 
hundred, they were unending ; but the draughts they drank were neither 
countable nor counted. This boon was dispensed in a long, pillared 
portico, where everything was white and light save the blue of the great 
bay as it played up from far below or as you took it in, between shining 
columns, with your elbows on the parapet. Sorrento and Vesuvius were 
over against you ; Naples, farthest off, melted, in the middle of the 
picture, into shimmering vagueness and innocence ; and the long arm of 
Posilippo and the presence of the other islands, Procida, the stricken 
Ischia, made themselves felt to the left. The grand air of it all was in 
one's very nostrils and seemed to come, from sources too numerous and 
too complex to name. It was antiquity in solution, with every brown, 
mild figure, every note of the old speech, every tilt of the great flask, 
every shadow cast by every classic fragment, adding its touch to the 
impression. What was the secret of the surprising amenity ? — to the 
essence of which one got no nearer than simply by feeling afresh the old 
story of the deep interfusion of the present with the past. You had felt 
that often before, and all that could, at the most, help you now was that, 
more than ever yet, the present appeared to become again really classic, 
to sigh with strange elusive sounds of Virgil and Theocritus. Heaven 
only knows how little these spirits would in truth have had to say to it, 
but we yield to such visions as we must, and when the imagination fairly 
turns in its pain almost any soft name is good enough to soothe it, 

It threw such difficulties but a step back to say that the secret of the 
amenity was " style " ; for what in the world was the secret of style, which 
you might have followed up and down the abysmal old Italy for so many 
a year only to be still vainly calling for it ? Everything, at any rate, that 
happy afternoon, in that place of poetry, was bathed and blessed with it. 
The castle of Barbarossa had been on the height behind ; the villa of 
black Tiberius had overhung the immensity from the right ; the white 
arcades and the cool chambers offered to every step some sweet old 
"piece" of the past, some rounded porphyry pillar supporting a bust, 
some shaft of pale alabaster upholding a trellis, some mutilated marble 
image, some bronze that had roughly resisted. Our host, if we came to 
that, had the secret ; but he could only express it in grand practical ways- 


The Saint's Afternoon 

One of them was precisely this wonderful "afternoon tea," in which tea 
only — that, good as it is, has never the note of style — was not to be found. 
The beauty and the poetry, at all events, were clear enough, and the 
extraordinary uplifted distinction ; but where, in all this, it may be asked, 
was the element of "horror" that I have spoken of as sensible? — what 
obsession that was not charming could find a place in that splendid light, 
out of which the long summer squeezes every secret and shadow? I 
fear I am driven to plead that these evils were exactly in one's imagi- 
nation, a predestined victim always of the cruel, the fatal historic sense. 
To make so much distinction, how much history had been needed ! — so 
that the whole air still throbbed and ached with it, as with an accumula- 
tion of ghosts to whom the very climate was pitiless, condemning them 
to blanch for ever in the general glare and grandeur, offering them no 
dusky northern nook, no place at the friendly fireside, no shelter of legend 
or song. 


My friend had, among many original relics, in one of his white 
galleries — and how he understood the effect and the "value" of white- 
ness ! — two or three reproductions of the finest bronzes of the Naples 
museum, the work of a small band of brothers whom he had found 
himself justified in trusting to deal with their problem honourably and 
to bring forth something as different as possible from the usual com- 
promise of commerce. They had brought forth, in especial, for him, a 
copy of the young resting, slightly-panting Mercury which it was a pure 
delight to live with, and they had come over from Naples on St. Antony's 
eve, as they had done the year before, to report themselves to their 
patron, to keep up good relations, to drink Capri wine and to join in the. 
tarantella. They arrived late, while we were at supper ; they received 
their welcome and their billet, and I am not sure it was not the con- 
versation and the beautiful manners of these obscure young men that 
most fixed in my mind for the time the sense of the side of life that, all 
around, was to come out strongest. It would be artless, no doubt, to 
represent them as high types of innocence or even of energy — at the 
same time that, weighing them against some of our own rough diamonds, 
we might perhaps have made bold to place their share even of these 

9 b 

The May Book 

qualities in the scale. It was an impression indeed, never infrequent in 
Italy, of which I might, in these days, first have felt the force during a 
stay, just earlier, with a friend at Sorrento — a friend who had good- 
naturedly "had in," on his wondrous terrace, after dinner, for the 
pleasure of the gaping alien, the usual local quartette, violins, guitar and 
flute, the musical barber, the musical tailor, sadler, joiner, humblest sons 
of the people and exponents of Neapolitan song. Neapolitan song, as 
we know, has been blown well about the world, and it is late in the day 
to arrive with a ravished ear for it. That, however, was scarcely at all, 
for me, the question : the question, on the Sorrento terrace, as high up 
in the cool Capri night, was of the present outlook, in the world, for the 
races with whom it has been a tradition, in intercourse, positively to please. 

The personal civilisation, for intercourse, of the musical barber and 
tailor, of the pleasant young craftsmen of my other friend's company, 
was something that could be trusted to make the brooding tourist brood 
afresh — to say more to him in fact, all the rest of the second occasion, 
than everything else put together. The happy address, the charming 
expression, the indistinctive discretion, the complete eclipse, in short, of 
vulgarity and brutality — these things easily became among these people 
the supremely suggestive note, begetting a hundred hopes and fears as 
to the place that, with the present general turn of affairs about the globe, 
is being kept for them. They are perhaps what the races politically 
feeble have still most to contribute — but what appears to be the happy 
prospect for the races politically feeble ? And so the afternoon waned, 
among the mellow marbles and the pleasant folk — the purple wine 
flowed, the golden light faded, song and dance grew free and circulation 
slightly embarrassed. But the great impression remained and finally 
was exquisite. It was all purple wine, all art and song, and nobody a 
grain the worse. It was fireworks and conversation — the former, in the 
piazzetta, were to come later ; it was civilisation and amenity. I took in 
the greater picture, but I lost nothing else ; and I talked with the contadini 
about antique sculpture. No, nobody was a grain the worse ; and I had 
plenty to think of. So it was I was quickened to remember that we others, 
we of my own country, as a race politically not weak, had— by what I had 
somewhere just heard — opened " three hundred 'saloons' " at Manilla. 


From a Photograph by F. Hollyer 

Study of a Head 




Angel Court 

In Angel Court the sunless air 

Grows faint and sick ; to left and right, 
The cowering houses shrink from sight, 

Huddling and hopeless, eyeless, bare. 

Misnamed, you say. For surely rare 
Must be the angel-shapes that light 
In Angel Court! 

Nay : the Eternities are there. 

Death by the doorway stands to smite ; 

Life in its garrets leaps to light ; 
And Love has climbed that crumbling stair 
In Angel Court ! 


I 2 

By Randolph Caldecott 


Painting and Story* 

An Idle Gossip 



Egerton Castle 

HE place where I do my work is a long apartment ; two 
rooms thrown together, brown-panelled, lighted at either 
end by wide small-paned windows, shaded by sap-green 
translucent curtains. The sturdy brown and the youth- 
ful green of woodlands : such is the effect that meets 
the eye everywhere. Brown book-cases display in serried ranks, tier 
over tier from floor to ceiling, the most heterogeneous collection of 
books conceivable. A few oil pictures — a Turner, a Morland, a Van- 
dervelde, a Berghem and sundry portraits, divide the scant remaining 
space with trophies of "cold steel" and a long engraving of bygone 
London : Visscher's panorama, to wit, most harmoniously smoked during 
the flight of centuries. Over the mantel-shelf, in solitude, Michael 
Angelo's Pensieroso eternally muses in bronze. 

Round and about me, within these brown walls, almost every chattel 
speaks of the "old younger days." They have acquired by long mutual 
association the special physiognomy which now pleases my fancy so well. 
They are symbolic of character, of inveterate tastes — among which delight 
in the silent companionship of books and in much fantastic day-dreaming 
is the most pronounced. 


Painting and Story-Telling 

Some time ago was mooted the question of having a picture painted 
of this den of mine. I should say that the pretext was a portrait— has not 
indeed many a man had his portrait painted for the love of the horse he 
rides, or of the hound at his feet, or of the new uniform on his back ? 
But, mere pretext as it was, this human figure had to be taken into con- 
sideration ; and it sadly limited the scope of the original idea. 

Thereupon, between the Limner and the Dweller in the Room arose a 
mighty parley over the composition. The first consideration, of course, 
was the general tone : the restful silent brown and green as aforesaid, 
which was to be cunningly enhanced by certain "high lights," by a certain 
disposition of suggestive "darks." And the central figure, a musing, 
writing fellow — obviously given to too much musing and too little writing- — 
was to be brought into harmony with the spirit of the scheme. Moreover, 
within the limits of canvas, room was to be found for especial treasures: 
the vellum-bound tomes of once Royal ownership (spoil of a glorious 
day's raid over the borders of ancient bookland) ; the Barbedienne bronze, 
picked up at an Art sale in delicious defiance of a low bank account ; the 
massive standish, legacy of one beloved ; the pipe of Hungary, gift of an 
old friend . . . que scais-je ! (The brass tobacco-jar, a most wise and 
melancholy owl with glass eyes of hypnotic fascination, was, with many 
another cherished chattel, stoutly refused admission. . . . Eheu ! even on 
canvas, their owner still mourns their companionship.) 

" Why," said the Writer, " 'tis as ticklish a business as the planning of 
a tale ! " 

The Limner assented : " Why ; yes. A picture should always be the 
telling of a story." 

How true, it struck me, is the converse of this golden rule ! 

Some men, with a reflective bent for comparison — that faculty which 
Gall tells us dwells in the brain between the twin^organs of causality — have 
a singular discrimination for differences. I have the greater tendency 
myself, to trace likenesses. Both inclinations, by the way — and only 
surface is the paradox — start from the same faculty. 

During the growth of this Work of Art, which had so intimate an 
interest for me, the similarity between the building up of a story in tones 
with brush and pigment, and a picture in words with pen and ink, im- 
pressed me at every stage as more complete. 


The May Book 

There are, I understand, broadly two ways of setting about a painting. 
Some, it appears, complete their scheme in line ; draw everything "right 
away " (my informant hails from the other side of the Atlantic) ; fill in with 
colour ; polish up, and so to completion. Nothing tentative, no experiment 
with this effect or that ! 

A number of writers there are, in the same manner, who have their 
tale — joy, sorrow, passion, every accident of circumstance, almost every 
speech of every character — ready cut and dried in their minds before they 
dip their quill into the ink dish to set down complacently the opening 
phrase of Chapter I. Distinctly one class of artistic temperament. 

Not of this class is my particular Rembrandt. (Neither, unfortunately, 
is his sitter.) 

First, on the fair surface of the canvas he flung, with a noble prodigality 
at which I held my breath, various masses of clouds, hued of the desired 
tone but duller of pitch ; and, with extended arm, supple wrist, with 
occasional sweep of masterly thumb, defined the main relations of brown 
and green and what was to be bronze or vellum or living flesh. Suddenly, 
in these mists appeared — I could hardly tell how, though even at that 
moment I watched over his shoulder — a sudden luminosity ; and here 
indubitably was the lamp shedding light on the whole. 

The Limner paused and smiled : " I think that is our general idea," he 
said contentedly. 

I stepped back to view from the distance that should lend the right 
enchantment, and lo ! chaos assumed shape, the provinces of light and 
shade mapped themselves out with their debateable marches. There, 
though dim as yet as dreamland, certainly was the corner of my library 
by lamp-light ; there also was my astral self in the very act, it seemed, of 
reincarnation. A most inspiring vision in its mysterious promise ! 

In course of subsequent hours, from these harmonious shapely vapours 
separated themselves the elements of the little world. With marvellous 
promptness the nebulae became segregated and solidified ; stood in contrast 
and opposition to each other. It was like the figures of friends emerging 
from a fog. 

But here we came to a pause. With the question of detail a wide 
field of choice spread before artist and model. Hesitation replaced bold 
confidence. Should the lamp-light play upon a pensive or an alert eye ; 
on the bland brow of an optimistic philosopher, or the pregnant frown of 


Painting and Story-Telling 

a student ? The Man had suddenly begun to assume chief importance — 
and, I confess, even I felt the matter deserved attention. 

It was at this period that an eye appeared in his face. . . . That eye f 
It haunted the sitter even in his sleep : it filled the painter himself with 
gloom. Fortunately there was a remedy: that eye glared but for twenty- 
four hours. 

We spent some anxious moments, wasted some hours. But all at 
once, as if touched by a fresh inspiration, the Man began to live : there 
came at last speculation in his glance of the sort desired ; bone and 
muscle revealed themselves underneath his skin. The whole figure grew 
into relief from the background. 

But alas ! my den and its treasures were proportionately receding into 
scenic insignificance : it was inevitable ! Yet, a glint upon the bronze 
Thinker, a gay gleam on this gilt-tooled volume here, and a subtle patch 
of crimson on that other, a flash of light upon the green silk fold of the 
curtain, a note as of a cool spring foliage . . . and I could not but admit 
that right telling of the particular story at hand was artistically complete 
in all essentials. True, indeed, much was left out the narration of which 
had originally been fancied, but was it not all more aptly present by mere 
suggestion ? The painter had not, as the fastidious Japanese canon has. 
it, "spoilt all by telling all." He had nursed the broad effect and showed 
that reticence of strength which speeds the beholder's imagination on the 
right road and invites its co-operation. 

How often, in the same manner, has the writer to sacrifice even his. 
most favourite imaginings in the service of his main idea ! Few readers 
of "mere fiction" realise that the scenes unfolded to the mind's eye are 
but a tithe of those originally rehearsed on the airy stage of their creator's 
fancy ; that those enacted in the printed page have in most cases been 
" cut " over and over again under his critical stage-management. Yet the 
spirit of all that is left unspoken dwells with the rest, if so it be that the 
tale is well told : the absent episodes are, unconsciously, supplied by the 

As on Canvas the picture resolves itself out of the vague alluring- 
chaos, faithful in every item to the selected tone and scheme, so in 
the Book must the story unfold itself, each accessory in harmony 
with the main idea, whether romantic and vigorous, or dreamily poetical ; 
whether pathetic or humorous ; or yet passionate, with the fierce beating 

17 c 

The May Book 

light of great crises — each episode a "high light," each reticence a 

But I am not for learned discussion : rather for idle gossip as I sit for 
this picture. And I have learned by experience the danger of riding 
that tricksy jade, Simile, too far and too hard. Moreover, the further one 
pushes comparisons the more one is apt to strike against points of differ- 
ence. How seldom, for instance — even as in nature the full-blown plant 
retains little that recalls the first shoot of the seedlino; — does in a tale the 
original scheme survive in its entirety. 

This, and the manner in which characters will develop of themselves ; 
in which, as in real life, a sudden incident will leap into fatal importance 
and alter the whole preordained course of events ; for 

The best laid schemes o' mice an' men 
Gang aft agley ! 

these things are among the mysteries of the craft. They remain at once 
the despair and the triumph of the fictionist. It is often as impossible 
for him to forecast truly from the idde-mere of his story what it will prove 
at its coming of age, as for the parent to dictate the character of the 
unborn child. 

Plan the course of your tale as solicitously as you list, the accident 
of circumstances and the working of Fate (represented in fiction by the 
chain of suggestion and the requirements of logic) will move it ever and 
anon into unknown channels, even to the lip of unsuspected chasms. 
The "mutual interdependence of things," the " Zusammenhang der 
Dinge " (to use the fascinating title of one of Hoffmann's fantasies), will 
assert itself on paper as in the world. Many a tale which was schemed 
in "sentiment" develops into a humorous creature: many another, 
starting in light-hearted mood irresistibly ends in tears. The life 
currents of fiction, in fact, cannot be checked any more than the current of 
real life, or they become dead waters by the way. The born soldier may 
have been intended for the Church at one time ; but he soon breaks 
through the fond barriers that would keep him to safe pastures, and rushes 
to join the stormy tides of life. His " the pride, pomp, and circumstance of 
glorious war." And well for him : he might have made a deplorable curate ! 

It is this truth to the inner life that alone gives the power of conviction 
to the mere Tale. 


Painting and Story-Telling 

Indeed the manner in which tales grow from the uncertain dimness of 
first conception, through all sorts of hardly recognisable shapes, to the 
final one which their creator at least deems worthy of permanence, is often 
a curious course to trace. It may perhaps be advanced that in most 
cases the embryo was "a dream which was not all a dream," a subtle 
mixture of fact and fancy. Be it a theme suggested by some actual 
occurrence, the writer may have grouped around it a number of 
picturesque "might-have-beens": outgrowths, consequences, side-light 
revelations. Or, conversely, be it a prime idea of purest fantasy, he may 
have made it plausible by cunningly devised surroundings supported 
by imaginary antecedents, strengthened by modern instances, and so 

" Where did you get that idea ? " 

How often is the question asked of the Romancer! Indiscreet it is on 
occasions ; difficult to answer at all times. The fons et origo of " ideas " 
is of course as undiscoverable as that of life : we can only trace them up 
as far as the circumstance in which they first became manifest as images. 
The motif of a tale may often have been suggested by personal adven- 
tures and experience — hence the far-reaching indiscretion of the query. 
It may, as often as not, have been found in an actual dream. 

We know how curiously original and plausible some dreams have a 
knack of being : how vivid can at times be the impression they leave. 
As Schiller says somewhere : " The soul, whilst the body slumbers, 
unfolds its radiant wings and travels, God knows where. What it does 
then, no man can assert — but at times Inspiration seems to betray the 
secret of its nocturnal peregrinations." In sleep-land we rush into 
strenuous, romantic situations, free from the shackles of daylight responsi- 
bility ; and the remembrance of such dream-scenes is frequently as clear 
as real experiences ; in fact, in the matter of emotion, they must be 
reckoned as real experiences. They become, therefore, meet stuff for the 
story-teller. With proper " manipulations " many of these wayward 
threads of fancy may be woven into a web of consequence, into a plausible 
and moving Tale. 

And akin to this dream of sleep is the day-dream ; especially that 
strangely vivid whirl of new ideas that accompanies an unwonted stirring 
of the senses. Let it be Music — voluptuous, or martial, or sacred : under 
its pulse the hitherto calmly rational mind will soar unexpectedly in 


The May Book 

passional flight. Let it be some extraordinarily beautiful aspect of 
Nature, some marvel of colour in the heavens at set or rise of sun, some 
exquisite mystery of cloud or distance. Mark ! the sails of Fancy are 
filled by new and prosperous airs, and away sails she over seas unknown. 
Strangest of all perhaps are the unattainable visions that some scents, 
like magic, will evoke : scents, most potent of all appeals to the senses, 
to revive long-effaced memories, and to create new expectations of beauty 
and new apprehensions of ecstacy : 

Die of a rose in aromatic pain ! 

Your Eastern, lover of beautiful day-dreaming, knows the power of 
perfumes full well. 

Thus, through the channels of mere senses, can the sluices be opened 
to unwonted streams of thought quite as mysterious as dreams themselves. 
And, as the eternal tendency of the mind is either to endeavour to bring 
down fleeting Fancy to finite form, or conversely to idealise the working of 
human passions, the most evanescent impression may give rise to some 
masterpiece of romance. This is not only true of pleasing emotions : 
what broods of black fancies, hitherto unguessed at, can be fathered on a 
single transient feeling of horror ! 

All this is what may be called Inspiration, as distinguished from the 
ready formed suggestions of outward events. 

One of the conclusions I came to during those hours in which I sat, 
still and perforce meditative, was that it must, on the whole, be easier to 
be a successful painter than a successful teller of tales. (But, naturally, I 
refrained from communicating the information to the Limner.) If the 
artist has a good knowledge of his technique — and be it noted, technique 
can be learnt systematically, at Julien's or elsewhere, whereas no 
rhetorical treatise ever taught a man to write — if he has a correct eye 
for line and tone, he can almost do without Inspiration ; he can be satisfied 
with being the interpreter of themes ready set for him. But your 
Romancer, if he is to convince his hearers, must first have been moved 
himself by some breath of Inspiration. You may tell the Limner : 
" Paint me a picture to my desire — let the subject be this or that, its tone 
be light or sombre." But you cannot go to the Novelist and say : " Here 
is the subject I want — set you to work on it," and expect that he will 
bring you in due course a living thing. He may have a trick of style, a 


Painting and Story-Telling 

nice knowledge of social life and the rest of it, but if his work is to find 
an echo in human hearts, it must be spontaneous. Therefore should the 
steam of the pot-boiler stink in one's nostrils ! Therefore, also, is it that 
the hundreds of mechanical puppets (built by rule of thumb although 
fondly labelled "all alive" by their constructors) let loose every year in 
the world of fiction inevitably fall to pieces, after crawling about for a 
lesser or greater period according to the strength of their springs, and 
disappear, leaving not even a memory. A few indeed may be preserved ; 
but it will be in the odd library corners, as curiosities illustrative of 
manners and customs — mere gravures de modes — for the reference of 
future ages, not because the puppets that display the fashion are in the 
least like human beings. 

Inspiration, however, is not all. To receive the afflatus is not enough; 
one must be able to communicate it, to mould the proper material shape. 
Neither is power of observation of much use by itself. So much of critical 
faculty, of knowledge of the world ; so much tolerance for human incom- 
pleteness, so much philosophy, must go to this embodiment if the story is 
to be true to human life, that it is easy to understand that, unlike poets, 
good novelists can rarely be very young men. 

The more the pity of it : because youth is the time not merely of love, 
but of all joyous passions ; of warm enthusiasm and noble indignation — of 
Inspiration in fine. The spring storms only shake the sap to the green of 
the leaf ; the autumn winds strip the tree bare and show the hollowness 
of the land. Thus it is that youth is the poet's time, for he can give his 
message straight from his spirit as it were, and need not, like the story- 
teller, clothe it with every-day humanity. 

The mere fact, by the way, of having to clothe his inspiration in the 
true mould of human life lays the novelist open to a special run of criticism. 

"Why, this book," invariably cries some critic or other, "is upon the 
old, old theme ! " forgetting that human passions run in old, old grooves ; 
that the tragedy of the Garden of Eden repeats itself in the life of every 
son and daughter of Adam and Eve ; that since the Creator made man 
•of the dust of His already created earth, we are all of the same clay ; that 
we can see but through our eyes ; that in the spirit only can we be original. 
To my mind, to take up the eternal theme : two men and one woman, 
two women and one man, to work into it the eternal triad of conflicting 


The May Book 

passions, Love, Hatred, and Ambition, and to give it a new life — therein 
lies the triumph! 

There is really too little discrimination in the easy cry of plagiarism — 
atavism is as inevitable in literature as in all else. Without Chronicles and 
Novellini should we have had the Shakespeare we know ? without the 
grand prose of the Bible, the poetry of Milton? without the Greek im- 
mortals, our own immortal Keats ? without Moliere, Dumas, Gautier, and 
Hugo, would the French have had the brightest star of their present 
literature, Edmond Rostand ? 

Moreover, even as we are all links in an endless chain of Tradition, so 
are we always subject to the immediate influence of our own age. Call it 
Fashion if you will : we must be in fashion, unconsciously, whether we like 
it or no. No more than the happy sons of the Renaissance could help 
being pagans at heart, can we help being the children of our century. 
Our very countenances are subject to this law, and may we not believe 
that the structures of our brains correspond ? And then, because the 
story-teller is fain to dress up the old, old theme in the only way his 
century will allow, once more he will be warned by an overwrought 
" critic " that he lacks originality ! 

Yet let the writer comfort himself. What though fashions change, 
and the tone of men's garments vary ; what though ladies' eyes be " worn 
languorous " as at a Restoration period, or candid and demure as in early 
days of a good Queen's reign, his work will endure, even though now 
little noticed in the throng of aforesaid mechanical puppets, if he has 
infused in it the breath of ideal life. This is the message of the ages, a 
truth which many a chef cTceuvre, recognised too late, has illustrated at 
once with poignant sorrow and high consolation. 

But I have unconsciously changed my key — this is surely too deep a 
note on which to end an idle gossip ! 
Meanwhile the picture is finished. 

Why, I vow this Limner also is a plagiarist ! The lamplight actually 
throws Rembrandtesque shadows ! And there is a distinct hint of that 
modern French fashion, in sloping perspective, which we associate with 
the work of Mr. Sargent ! 

But I refrain from telling the Limner so : no doubt it will be acidly 
enough pointed out to him in time by the critics. 



In " La Reine Fiammette " 

The bees beseech the bashful flowers : 
" O, open wide your scented bowers, 

And lead us where the honey drips ! " 

Your kisses murmur on our lips 
The song the bees sing to the flowers. 

Impassioned April asks the snow: 
" O crystals cold, when will you flow, 

In molten tides beneath my beams!" 

And love says to our hearts it seems 
What April whispers to the snow. 

The stars entreat the waning moon : 

" Good-night, but come again, come soon 

To light the adoring universe." 

Your pleading eyes in ours rehearse 
The cry the stars send to the moon. 




Lady Marjorie Manners 

Drawn by The Marchioness of Granby 

An Appreciated Rupee 


Mrs. F. A. Steel 

HE was a poor Mahommeclan widow, and lived in an 
unconceivable sort of burrow under the tall winding 
stair of a big tenement house, which in its turn was 
hidden away in a long, winding, sunless alley. The 
stair centred round a sort of shaft, barred at each storey 
by iron gratings, narrow enough to prevent even a child from falling 
through, yet wide enough to admit of refuse being thrown down. This 
shaft was, briefly, the rubbish shoot of the building, so that old Maimuna 
— who seldom left her seclusion till the evening — had, in passing to and 
fro, to step over quite a pile of radish parings, cauliflower stalks, fluff, 
rags, a whole day's sweepings and leavings of the folk higher up in the 
world than she. 

And even when she reached the odd-shaped cell of a place whose 
only furniture consisted of a rickety bed with string-halt in two of its 
■emaciated legs, a low stool and a spinning wheel, she was not free from 
her neighbours' off-scourings ; for down the wall beside the low latticed 
window, where perforce she had to set her spinning wheel, crept a slimy 
black streak of sewage from above, which smelt horribly on its way to 
join the open drain in the middle of the alley. Yet here Maimuna 
Begam, Pathan-ni from Kasur, had lived for fifteen years of childless 
widowhood ; lived far away from her home and people, too poor to rejoin 
them, too ignorant to hold her own among strangers. For she had been 
that most intolerable of interlopers — the wife of a man's old age. Not a 

25 D 

The May Book 

suitable wife bringing a dower into the family ; but one who, as a widow,, 
might — unless the other heirs took active measures to prevent it — claim 
her portion of one-sixth for life. A wife, too, without a pretence of any 
position save that of the strictest seclusion ; a seclusion so untouched by 
modern latitude as to be in itself second-rate. Without good looks also, 
and married simply and solely because old Jehan Latif had fancied some 
quail curry which he had eaten when business called him to Kasur, and, 
as the best way of securing repetition of the delicacy, had married the 
compounder and carried her back to Lucknow ; where, to tell truth, he 
found more attractions in the cook than he had anticipated when he paid 
a good round sum for his middle-aged bride. For Maimuna was a good 
woman — kindly, gentle, pious — who had lived discreetly in her father's 
house, and helped to cook quail curry for that somewhat dissolute old 
swashbuckler ever since, as a girl of twelve, her husband had died before 
she had even seen him. 

So, while she pounded the spices and boned the quails (since that was 
one of the refinements of the bonne-boiiche) for old Jehan Latif, Maimuna 
used sometimes to think with a kind of wondering regret what life would 
have been like if the husband of her youth had not died of the measles ; 
but being conscientious she never allowed the tears to drop into the quail 
curry ! 

It was no carelessness of hers, therefore, which led to fat Jehan Latif 
falling into a fit shortly after partaking of the favourite dish which for ten 
years she had dutifully prepared for him. None the less his heirs (who* 
had had all these years in which to cook their accounts of the matter) 
treated her as if it were. There is no need to enter into details. Those 
who know India know how unscrupulous heirs can oppress a lone 
woman ; a woman, ignorant, secluded, whose position as wife has from 
the first been cavilled at, resented, impugned. It is sufficient to say that 
Maimuna, alter a few feeble protests, found herself in the little cell under 
the stairs, earning a few farthings by her spinning wheel, and thankful 
that her great skill at it kept her from that last resort of deserted woman- 
hood in India — the quern. Even so, it was hard at times to wait till 
there was sufficient thread in the percentage she got back for her 
spinning, to make it worth while for the merchant to buy it from her, or 
for her to break in, by a cash transaction, on the curious succession of 
cotton bought, and thread returned, without a coin changing hands,, 
which makes spinning so desperate a means of keeping soul and body 


An Appreciated Rupee 

together. And this winter it was more desperate than ever, for the 
unusual cold made her fingers stiff, and sent shoots of rheumatism up 
her arm as she sate spinning in the ray of light which came in with the 

It was very cold indeed that New Year's afternoon, and Maimuna 
felt more than usually down-hearted ; for there had been a death upstairs, 
and she knew that the stamping and shufflings she could hear coming 
rhythmically downwards over her head were the feet of those carrying a 
■corpse. Now weary and worn as she was, Maimuna — between the fifties 
and sixties — did not yet feel inclined to fold her hands and give in. 
Even now it needed a very little thing to bring a smile to her face ; and 
•once, when a child had fallen down stairs, she had surprised the neigh- 
bours by her alert decision. So that when she heard girls' shrill voices 
in half-giggling alarm through her door — which was ajar — she guessed at 
the cause, and called to the owners to come in until the stairs should be 

One (a slip of a thing ten years old) she knew as the daughter of a 
gold thread worker higher up the stairs ; the other (not more than five or 
six) was a stranger ; a fat broad-faced morsel, with a stolid look, and 
something held very tight in one small chubby hand. She was dressed 
in the cleanest of new clothes, scanty of stuff but gay, with a yard or two 
■of tinsel on her scrap of a veil. Maimuna paused in the whirr and hum 
of her wheel to look at the children wistfully : her own childlessness had 
always seemed a crime to her. 

"It is Fatma, the penmaker's girl, Mai" said the gold- worker's 
■daughter, patronisingly. " She is just back from the Missen School, 
where they have been having a big festival because it is the sahib log s 
big day." 

"Tchuk," dissented the solemn-faced baby, clucking her tongue in 
•emphatic denial. " It is not the Big Day. It is because Malika Victoria 
is — is — " The solemnity merged in confusion, finally into a sort of 
appealing defiance : " Is — is — that " 

She unclasped her fist, and held out a brand new shining silver two- 
anna bit. It was one of those struck when her Majesty the Queen 
assumed the Imperial title. 

The gold-worker's daughter giggled. "She means Wictoria Kaiser- 
i-hind, you know. What the guns were about this morning. They are 
to go off every year, they say. That will be fun ! " 


The May Book 

" But why?" asked Maimuna, puzzled. Her life for close on five-and- 
thirty years had been spent in the cooking of quail curry and spinning 
of cotton — the very Mutiny had passed by unknown to her. She had 
heard vaguely of the Queen, and knew that it was Her head on the rupee 
which, despite the hard times, she always wore on a black silk skein 
round her neck, because she had worn it since her babyhood, when the 
parents of the boy who had died of the measles had sent it her ; but what 
the Queen had to do with John Company Bahadar, or he to Her, was a 

" Why," giggled the elder girl, "because She is going to be the King, 
and turn all the men out. That is what father says. He says She is 
sure to favour the women, and I think that will be fun. But Fatma 
knows it all. Come ! dear one ! Sing Maimuna that song the miss 
sahibas made the schools sing to-day. Sing it soft, close, close up to her 
ear, so that no one may hear it — for they don't like Fatma singing, you 
know, at home, Mai: it isn't respectable." 

So, standing almost on tip-toe, steadying herself against Maimuna's 
arm by the hand which held the two-anna bit, Fatma began in a most 
unmelodious whisper to chant a Hindee version of "God save our 
Gracious Queen." The words as well as the tune were a difficulty to 
the fat, solemn-faced child, but the old woman sate listening and looking 
at the two-anna bit with a new interest, a new wonder in her weary 

" Bismillah ! " she said, half way through, when the gold-worker's 
daughter, becoming impatient, declared the corpse must have passed, 
and dragged Fatma off incontinently. " And she is a woman — only a 
woman ! " 

The girls paused at the door ; the elder to nod and giggle, the younger 
to stand sedate and solemn, wagging one small forefinger backwards and 
forwards in negation. 

" Tchuk ! you shouldn't say that, Mai ! Little girls are made of sugar 
and spice. It is little boys that are made nasty — the miss says so." 

"She should not say so," faltered Maimuna aghast. The very idea 
was preposterous, upsetting her whole cosmogony ; but when they had 
closed the door, she sate idle, too astonished to work. Then, suddenly, 
she took off the black silk hank with its precious rupee, and looked at the 
woman's head at the back. 

It was a young woman there ; young and unveiled — strange, incompre- 


An Appreciated Rupee 

hensible ! But that other on the two-anna bit had been an old woman 
more decently dressed, and with a crown on her head. 

" Frustrate their knavish tricks." 

Fatma's song returned to memory. So the Queen, too, had enemies ; 
and yet She was Kaiser-i-hind, and, what is more, She made men like 
the gold thread worker upstairs tremble ! 

" On thee our hopes we fix ! " 

su 4u AL Jt • ji» jit at 

TT fit" TV; w TV *7l" TV" 

Maim una sat, and sat, and sat, looking at that rupee. 

Jt.' ■>!■ 1 -M. Jt. J£- Ji. dt - jfc 

"7V - TV" TV "TV" "TV" TV TV TrtF 

It was a day or two after this that an English official was sitting- 
smoking in his verandah, when he became aware of a whispered colloquy 
behind him. It was some one, no doubt, trying, through the red-coated 
orderly, to gain an audience of him ; and he was newly back from office, 
tired, impatient, perhaps, of the hopelessness of doing justice always. So 
he took no notice till something roused him to a swift turn, a swifter 
question, "What's that, chaprasi?" That was the unmistakable chink 
of fallen silver, the unmistakable whirr of a running rupee, the unmistak- 
able buzzing ring of its settling to rest. And there, midway between a 
giving and a taking hand, lay the rupee itself — the Queen's head upper- 

" Hazoor /" explained the orderly, glibly, " your slave was virtuously 
refusing; he was sending this ill-bred one away. Hat! budhi ! (old 
woman) Hat ! " 

But the sight of that head on the precious rupee which, after many 
heartsearchings, poor Maimuna had determined to risk in this effort to 
gain justice from a " budhi" like herself, whose enemies also had knavish 
tricks, brought courage to the old heart, and the old woman stood her 

" Ghai'ibparwar /" she said quietly, with her best salaam — and in the 
old Pathan house they had taught manners if nothing else — " Little Fatma, 
the penmaker's daughter, says that Wictoria Kaiser-i-hind is an old woman 

2 9 

The May Book 

like me, and so I have fixed my hopes on her. There is my rupee. It 
is all I have, and I want my widow's portion." 

#~y, 41. -V- At- Jf. -it- 


All this is true. 

And she got it. It happened years ago, but the story is worth telling 
again to-day, when women can no longer sing " God save the Queen." 


By J. T. Nettleship 

To my dear little friend Miss Eva Albanesi 

A Child's Evening Prayer 

Modcrafo. molto legato. 

Music by Y. PAOLO TOSTI. 

Lord, who liv - est in the skies, Kiss to sleep my tir - ed 


keep'st the stars a - light Through the qui - et dark of 


seest from a - bove, Make me worthy of Thy 

Moderate, molto legato. 

eyes ; Let me float on plea - sant streams, Through a land of hap - py 


night ; Lord, who wak - est up the sun When the bus - y day's be- 


love; And for -give me when I do A 

ny - thing I ought not 

»-M = 

2 £2_ 

I 1 


A Child's Evening Prayer 


- t-~ — i -^ — * 


dreams; Send Thy an -gels down to keep All harm from me while I 




Give me light that I may see 



Al - ways clear the way to 


am only a child and would Be a good one if 


r „ 

■ 1 1 1 v, — I- 

cp — — ~~ jh — 




1 f — = 

a)- 2 ! ~ 





P - 

Lord, who 

Lord, who 

* /Vr finire. 

•i< /Vr finire. 


f K>D.C. 




ardin de ma Tante" 


Richard Pryce 

SAW a garden in the early autumn. Red walls enclosed 
it — made it, were part of it — and held the silence of it, 
and the music, the many colours of it, and a very pot- 
pourri of gracious scents. 
You entered, as when you knew its aloofness and 
seclusion you would have expected to enter, by a door deep-sunk in thick 
ivy and thicker bricks. Brickwork was generous in the days that saw 
the building of those walls. Time had been (more recently then !) when 
the Englishman's house was in truth his castle, and the habit of stout 
building was not yet lost. I could well believe that the walls themselves, 
rained upon, buffeted, sun-baked, through the years as the times and the 
seasons ordained, contributed to the many mellow odours that greeted 
you upon the smiling threshold. With a hundred others were fragrances 
of phlox, mignonette, heliotrope, of ripe and ripening fruit — infinitely 
faint, perhaps, but present in such and such proportions, as might have 
been proved if an analysis of the whole savour of the garden had been 
possible ; the more pungent smell of herbs (as herbs) : mint, thyme, I 
know not what, with subtler odours of wood in gentle decay, and (as. I 
think) of aged masonry. 


The " Jardin de ma Tante " 

Box-borders edged the paths that, if they were of cinder then (for the 
difficulty of getting gravel), had been of gravel in their day, shining, I 
dare swear, and slippery with age, at a time when the world was younger 
For such a garden must have had shining paths whereon young feet had 
slipped by accident, or slidden with design. Was it the box-borders that, 
from the fours and fives and sixes, recalled for me the hole in the 
stocking's knee showing the bruised flesh through — a wound to be called 
" poor," perhaps, in the fours and fives, and kissed even for healing in the 
tenderer twos and threes — together with the smart and tingle of young 
palms that, falling amid such surroundings, have scraped along the ground 
and gathered all that was loose upon a treacherous surface ? 

Shining or no, however, polished or dull, it was by the feet of many 
generations upon their earthly pilgrimage that these paths had been 
trodden. The walls, if they could have spoken . . . ! Love-stories ? The 
lavender-beds might have told me, and the older rose-trees. Hands, I 
doubt not, had met in the plucking. It is not human nature that changes 
— though everything change! Or perhaps the sundial knew? Here, 
though time stood not still, had been haltings, loiterings, the desultoriness 
that waits a word or a look ? Empty arms had embraced the cold stone ; 
tears dropped one by one upon it, to spread and sink, writing their 
disappearing records like vows that are written in sand ? 

Well, well, a garden maybe (and like your life, if you would moralise !) 
is not wholly the sadder for stray tears. And here were tears . . . but 
here . . . and here ! 

A crystal drop lay in every cabbage leaf that was expanded enough 
and cupped enough to hold it — the plants with the largest hearts showing, 
as you might see, the fewest tears. The drops were diamonds — nay, 
quicksilver more aptly. They ran this way and that as you shook them. 
You might touch them and not wet your finger. You were at pains even 
to make them " wet " the leaf. 

Yes, there were cabbages in the garden, with other homely things : 
leeks, lettuces, a grove of scarlet-runners, arched where the props 
met, like children's hands that touch in the lane of "Oranges and 

It was the flowers after all that were on sufferance, perhaps. The 
netted gooseberry and currant bushes seemed to say so ; the parsley, the 
beans, a cherry tree, apple trees, the peaches and apricots from the walls, 
these last less definitely. Had the carnations and the asters stolen ground 


The May Book 

that should belong to carrots or artichokes ? Were the hollyhocks tres- 
passers ? the flaming marigolds ? the sunflowers ? 

Do not believe it! " Utilitarian" is a word that was not when such 
gardens were planted. The times, it is true — new days and manners for 
"others" — had turned the wine-house that stood in a sunny corner of it 
into a tool-house — for all the elaborateness of the oak panels which lined 
it so eloquently ; but the garden itself, with its welcoming essences, its 
warm breath of summer in autumn, its music of birds and of bees, and its 
blessed seclusion, was not, and never had been, more for your use than 
your pleasure. 


By Professor Hubert VON Herkomer 

The Main Regret 

Seen, too clear and historic within us ! our sins of omission 
Frown when the autumn days strip us so ruthlessly bare. 

They of our mortal diseases find never healing physician ; 
Errors charged on the soul, past all hope to repair. 

Sunshine might we have been unto seed in the earth, or have 

Seed to ascendant suns brighter than any that shone. 
Even the limp-legged beggar a sick desperado has flattered 
Back to acceptance of life cheered by the mere human tone. 



A Decoy 
By Hon. John Collier 




Fredk. Hollycr 

The Surprising 
Cure of Lois Perez 


F. Frankfort Moore 

HE story of how Senor Lois Perez was cured of a 
cardiac trouble the prognosis of which was of the most 
unfavourable character, illustrates so clearly the necessity 
for a patient's following scrupulously the advice of the 
physician, it may not be thought out of place in the 
pages of a volume having so intimate a connection with a Hospital as 
the present. 

A young Civil Servant with whom I was acquainted in Colombo 
felt rather fagged after an unusually protracted period of work, and made 
up his mind to consult the best doctor in the place. He did so, and the 
doctor went through the usual probings and stethoscopings, and then 
looked grave and went over half the surface again. He said he thought 
that on the whole he had better write his opinion of the " case " in all its 
particulars and send it to the patient. 

The next morning the patient received the following letter : — 

" My dear Sir, 

" I think it only due to the confidence which you have placed in 


The Surprising Cure of Lois Perez 

me to let you know in the plainest words what is the result of my 
diagnosis of your condition. Your left lung is almost gone, but with care 
you might survive its disappearance. Unhappily, however, the cardiac 
complications which I suspected are such as preclude the possibility of 
your recovery. In brief, I consider it to be my duty to advise you 
to lose no time in carrying out any business arrangements that demand 
your personal attention. You may of course live for some weeks ; but I 
think you would do wisely to count only on days. 

" Meantime I would suggest no material change in your diet, except 
the reduction of your brandy pegs to seven per diem." 

This letter was put into the hands of the unfortunate man when he 
returned from his early ride the next morning. Its effect was to diminish 
to an appreciable degree his appetite for breakfast. He sat motionless 
on his chair out on the verandah and stared at the letter — it was his 
death warrant. After an hour he felt a difficulty in breathing. He 
remembered now how he had always been uneasy about his lungs — his 
left in particular. He put his hand over the place where he supposed his 
heart to lie concealed. How could he have lived so many years in the 
world without becoming aware of the fact that as an everyday sort of an 
organ — leaving the higher emotions out of the question altogether — his 
heart was a miserable failure ? Sympathy, friendship, love, emotion — he 
would not have minded if his heart were incapable of these, if it only did 
its business as a blood pump ; but it was perfectly plain from the manner 
in which it throbbed beneath his hand, that it was deserving of all the 
reprobation the doctor had heaped upon it. 

His difficulty of respiration increased, and with this difficulty he 
became conscious of an acute pain under his ribs. He found when he 
attempted to rise that he could only do so with an effort. He managed 
to totter into his bedroom, and when he threw himself on his bed, it was 
with the feeling that he would never rise from it again. 

His faithful Khitmutgar more than once inquired respectfully if the 
Preserver of the Poor would like to have the Doctor Sahib sent for, and if 
the Joy of the Whole World would in the meantime drink a peg. But the 
Preserver of the Poor had barely strength to express the hope that the 
disappearance of . the Doctor Sahib might be effected by a supernatural 
agency, and the Joy of the Whole World could only groan at the sugges- 
tion of a peg. The pain under his ribs was increasing, and he had a 

41 F 

The May Book 

general nightmare feeling upon him. Toward evening he sank into a 
lethargy, and at this point the Khitmutgar made up his mind that the 
time for action had come ; he went for the doctor himself, and was 
fortunate enough to meet him going out in his buggy to dine. 

" What on earth have you been doing with yourself? " he inquired 
when he had felt the pulse of the patient. " Why, you've no pulse to 
speak of, and your skin — What the mischief have you been doing 
since yesterday ? " 

" How can you expect a chap's pulse to be anything particular when 
heTias no heart worth speaking of ? " gasped the patient. 

" Who has no heart worth speaking of? " 

The patient looked piteously up at him. " That's kicking a man 
when he's down," he murmured. 

"What's the matter with you anyway?" said the doctor. "Your 
heart's all right, I know — at least it was all right yesterday. Is it your 
liver ? Let me have a look at your eyes." 

He certainly did let the doctor have a look at his eyes. He lay 
staring at the good physician for some minutes. 

" No, your liver is no worse than it was yesterday," said the doctor. 

"Do you mean to say that your letter was only a joke?" said the 
patient, still staring. 

" A joke ? Don't be a fool. Do you fancy that I play jokes upon my 
patients ? I wrote to you what was the exact truth. I flatter myself 
I always tell the truth even to my patients." 

"Oh," groaned the patient. "And after telling me that I hadn't 
more than a few days to live, you now say my heart's all right." 

"You're mad, my good fellow — mad! I said that you must go 
without the delay of a day for a change — a sea voyage if possible, and 
that in a week you'd be as well as you ever were. Where's the 
letter ? " 

It was lying on the side of the bed. The patient had read it again 
after he had thrown himself down. 

" Heavens ! " cried the doctor when he had brought it over to the 
lamp. " An awful thing has happened. This is the letter which I wrote 
to Lois Perez, the diamond merchant, who visited me yesterday just 
before you came. My assistant must have put the letter that was meant 
for Perez into the envelope addressed to you, and your letter into the 
other cover. Great heavens ! " 

+ 2 

The Surprising Cure of Lois Perez 

The patient was sitting up in the bed. 

" You mean to say that— that — I'm all right ? " he gasped. 

" Of course you're all right. You told me you wanted a sea voyage, 
and naturally I prescribed one for you to give you a chance of getting 
your leave without any bother." 

The patient stared at the doctor for another minute and then fell back 
upon his pillow, turned his face to the wall and wept. 

Only for a few minutes, however ; then he suddenly sprang from the 
bed, caught the doctor by the collar of his coat, looked around for a 
weapon of percussion, picked up the pillow, and forthwith began to 
belabour the physician with such vehemence that the Khitmutgar, who 
hurried into the room, hearing the noise of the scuffle, fled from the 
compound, being certain that the Joy of the Whole Earth had become a 

After the lapse of about a minute, the doctor was lying on the floor 
with the tears of laughter streaming down his cheeks and on to his 
disordered shirt front, while the patient sat limp on a chair, yelling with 
laughter — a trifle hysterically perhaps. At the end of five minutes both 
were sitting over a bottle of champagne — not too dry — discussing the 
extraordinary effect of imagination upon the human frame. 

" But, by jingo, I mustn't forget poor Lois Perez," cried the doctor, 
starting up. "You may guess what a condition he is in when you know 
that the letter you read was meant for him." 

" By heavens, I can make a very good guess as to his condition," said 
the patient. " I was within measurable distance of that condition half an 
hour ago. But I'm hanged if you're going to make any other poor devil 
as miserable as you made me. Let the chap die in peace." 

"There's something in what you say," said the doctor. " I believe 
that I'll take your advice ; only I must rescue your letter from him. If 
it were found among his effects after his death next week, I should be set 
down as little better than a fool for writing that he was generally sound, 
but in need of a sea voyage " 

He drove off to the house of the Portuguese dealer in precious stones, 
and on inquiring for him, learned that he had left in the afternoon by the 
mail steamer to take the sea voyage that the doctor had recommended. 
He meant to call at the Andamans, and then go on to Rangoon, the 
man in charge of the house said. 

"There'll be an impressive burial service aboard that steamer 


The May Book 

before it arrives at the Andaman Islands," said the doctor to his 
wife as he told her what had occurred. He was very anxious lest the 
letter which the Portuguese had received should be found anions his 
papers. His wife, however, took a more optimistic view of the situation. 
And she was right, for Lois Perez returned in due course from Rangoon 
with a very fine collection of rubies, and five years afterwards he had 
still sufficient strength left to get the better of me in the sale of a cat's-eye 
to which he perceived I had taken a fancy that was not to be controlled. 

I need scarcely say that the "lesson" of this little story is that a 
patient cannot be too scrupulous in following the advice of his physician, 
especially when that advice is meant to apply to another " case." 


"There's always Something" 

'I'm very sorry, Palmerston, that you cannot 
agree with your fellow-servants ; but as I don't 
feel inclined to part with John, you must go of 

First sketch for the " Punch " Cartoon 

By John Leech 

The Beguinage of Bruges 


Gertrude Atherton 

RUGES is pre-eminently the city of convents and monas- 
teries, one of the last strongholds of Catholicism, and an 
anomaly even in Belgium. It is set thick with retreats 
for the deeply religious who have renounced the world ; 
there are more churches, I should think, than there are in 
New York, and its population is 50,000. During the summer there is a 
religious procession every Sunday, which is unrivalled in Europe for the 
magnificence of its costumes and the general enthusiasm of its audience. 
Not only does the entire population turn out, and plump down on its 
knees on the sharp stones when the Sacrament is carried past, but in one 
of these processions I saw the gentlemen of the town, bareheaded under a 
hot sun, in their evening clothes, carrying the lamps of their church. 
When a priest carries the Last Sacrament through the streets to the 
dying, preceded and followed by choir boys holding lighted candles, every 
passer-by goes down on his knees, and remains there until the Sacra- 
ment is out of sight. In every church there is a blessed relic, which the 
people kiss after service, and in the Chapelle du Saint Sang — built about 
900 — they claim to have a drop of the blood of Christ, given by the 
Patriarch of Jerusalem in the thirteenth century to one of the great 
crusaders from Flanders. Friday after Friday I have seen the peasants 
pouring in from the country, climbing the winding stairs of the chapel, 
and filing past the altar, ducking before this thing and kissing it. The 
priest who holds the glass cylinder containing the sponge with the drop, 

The Beguinage of Bruges 

scrubs the glass with his handkerchief after every third or fourth kiss. 
Beside him sits a gendarme, for the blood belongs to the city, not the 
Church. It is kept in a magnificent coffer of wrought gold studded with 
jewels, and once a year it is carried through the city, in one of the pro- 
cessions I have mentioned, by the Bishop, preceded and followed by a 
squad of cavalry. And yet Ostend, the most extravagant, wicked, and 
godless watering-place in Europe, is just forty minutes away. An hour 
in another direction is Ghent, which is one of the hotbeds of that form of 
4< anarchy " which I must put in quotation marks to please my Anarchist 
of Terre Haute; and two hours away is "the little Paris," Brussels, 
modern, glittering, sparkling, naughty, and caring about as much for 
religious processions as for any other mediaeval nonsense. 

And serene, even in Bruges, is the Beguinage. As Bruges is laid 
-out in a circle, surrounded by two systems of canals, it is hardly correct 
to say that anything is on the outskirts. But although the Beguinage is 
practically on a street which leads to the centre of the town, there 
happen to be few houses in its neighbourhood, and it has an isolated 
look. Near by is the Lac d' Amour, with its stone bridge of many 
arches, and its round tower of romantic memories ; and as you stand on 
the ancient bridge spanning the canal to the gate of the Beguinage, you 
see long avenues of green fields in the distance, and, near by, the stone 
walls of the conventual retreat with its ivy and vines and grated windows 
reflected in the waters of the canal ; and on the other side of the bridge 
the dilapidated, picturesque backs of poor houses, black with the grime 
of centuries, the canal in their cellars, but the beauty of age and vines 
and stately swans everywhere. 

On the arched gate you read "La Beguinage, 1776." When we 
were singing our Declaration of Independence with a great ringing of 
bells and impatience for the fight to come, a colony of gentlewomen 
were in their first enjoyment of a liberty as dear to them as vast 
territorial possession would mean to us. They were women tired of the 
world, disillusioned, disappointed, unhappy, in some cases so deeply 
religious of temperament that they needed no other incentive to renounce 
the world. There are no laws, no vows, in this community. Any one can 
join who has the proper credentials, pays the rent of one of the delightful 
little Flemish houses that are set along the semi-circular wall of the 
enclosure, and can keep a servant — for there is no common kitchen or 
.living-room. Any one can leave without argument ; but not since the 




R. B. 

His life went singing like a mountaineer 

Who climbs the hills and carols while he climbs, 
Above the snows he heard the faery chimes 

Of God's dim bells, and felt no shade of fear ; 

He leaped in faith from year to glimmering year ; 
Nothing to him seemed poor or vile or vain, 
Since all the fibres of his heart and brain 

Were braced by hope's high alpine atmosphere. 

I have known no goodlier spirit. Where he walked 
Love masqueraded in rough skins and claws, 

Feigning to be some monster of the woods ; 

Loud was the voice wherewith he rhymed and talked, 
But warmer heart, or moved in kindlier cause, 
Was never stirred by man's vicissitudes. 




W a i t i n g 


Arthur Hacker- 

H. B 


Some Forgotten Criticisms 
of Edmund Kean 


H. B. Irving 



T would be a profitable exercise for one interested in such 
matters to trace the gradual modification in the acerbities 
of literary and dramatic criticism that has taken place in 
the course of this century. In no case has it been more 
noticeable than in the criticism relating to the theatre. 
To the fierceness of the tiger has gradually succeeded the gentleness of 
the sucking dove, until, in the opinion of some, the actor of to-day is likely 
to be overtaken by the melancholy fate of the proverbial cat that expired 
from a plethora of benevolence. Others, perhaps, would say that this long 
indulgence has made the actor more liable to die of the transports, into 
which he is thrown by the least breath of a hostile criticism that blew in 
gusts about the efforts of his predecessors. One thing is certain that, 
for good or evil, the actor as an artist receives much less attention at the 
hands of his critics than he did at the beginning of the century. 

Such reflections as these would be inevitable to the reader of a volume 
of cuttings extracted from one of the principal London weekly news- 
papers of the day, the News, relating to the performances of Edmund 
Kean at the zenith of his fame. If, as a French poet has said, the 
criticism of fools, which may be fairly paraphrased as the unmitigated 


The May Book 

slating of genius, is the incense of genius, the altar of Kean would seem, 
throughout his career, to have been kept well supplied with incense of 
this particular description. The volume of extracts from which I propose 
to select some passages was evidently compiled by a person who was not 
an admirer of the great actor, one of those who, with Genest, preferred 
the school of Kemble to that of Kean, and saw in the performances of the 
latter only their extravagances and mannerisms. The voices of these 
carpers have been silenced for posterity by the acclamations of Kean's 
admirers, nor is the verdict of these admirers, whatever their exaggeration, 
ever likely to be reversed. But these hostile criticisms are interesting, 
as illustrations of what dramatic criticism was in Kean's day ; as a conso- 
lation to those who have, or believe they have, genius, in the hour of 
critical adversity ; as throwing some light on the character and limit of 
Kean's particular genius ; and as examples of the ease with which the critic, 
by obstinately fixing his gaze on the imperfections of a great artist, may 
render himself somewhat ridiculous in the eyes of posterity. 

It was on January 26, 18 14, that Edmund Kean leapt into fame by his 
performance of Shylock at Drury Lane. The critic of the News was 
not present on this occasion, but took an early opportunity of seeing the 
performance. He was not impressed by what he saw. " This gentleman,'" 
he writes, "has talents which merit to be displayed on the Metropolitan 
boards, but we acknowledge his Shylock did not strike us as eliciting any 
extraordinay efforts of the histrionic art." He goes on to say that Mr. 
Terry, a respectable actor at Covent Garden, would have played the part 
equally well, and thinks that Mr. Kean has " mistaken his forte in appear- 
ing at all in tragedy." "Richard III.," a performance received by the 
public and many critics with even greater enthusiasm than Shylock, only 
confirmed our critic in his worst suspicions of the new actor's abilities ; 
" the part is far beyond the grasp of Mr. Kean," tragedy is most certainly 
not his forte. He concludes his notice with a melancholy picture of 
Richmond exercising his truncheon on the scandalous supers composing 
his army, who, he says, marched like " the awkward squad in the Birdcage 

In his laudatory notice of Kean's Richard, Hazlitt roused our critic's 
ire by describing some of Kean's attitudes in that part as worthy of a 
Titian's brush, and declaring that the new actor had all the qualities that 
John Kemble wanted to attain perfection. In his notice of Hamlet, 
which Kean played for the first time on March 12, our critic openly 


Some Forgotten Criticisms of Edmund Kean 

espoused the cause of John Philip Kemble as against that of Kean. 
" We," he writes, "when witnessing the performances of Mr. Kean can 
coolly keep our seat in the critical chair and say ' that is well ' — ' this is 
better ' — ' this is not quite so well ' — ' that is good again,' " but in the case 
of Kemble he is accustomed to find himself snatched from himself and 
sent home with living memories. Hazlitt in a keenly critical notice of 
this performance, whilst admitting and pointing out its defects, preferred, 
with the true spirit of a critic, to enumerate its many striking beauties. 
But the censor of the News keeping his seat coolly in the critical chair 
found himself leaving the theatre with nothing but a " few catching 
impressions " of the ingenuity of the actor in managing " those particular 
passages where the character plays itself." He concludes characteristically, 
" Mr. Wallack played Laertes, we presume because he can fence. By the 
bye, Mr. Kean's abilities in this way are unquestionable." 

Of Kean's Othello, Hazlitt wrote that, while fully recognising its short- 
comings, it was the highest effort of genius on the stage ; and George 
Henry Lewes has left an opinion in every way coinciding with that of his 
predecessor. Iago, Hazlitt, at the time of Kean's first appearance in the 
character, declared to be the most faultless of his performances. Kean 
would seem to have been almost the first actor to play Iago in a light and 
genial vein, naturally, and not in the heavy and unduly sinister method 
then in vogue among the actors of his day. From the critical chair of the 
News issued a very different pronouncement. "In Othello Mr. Kean 
failed in the grand swell of impassioned feeling " (the very quality lauded 
by Hazlitt and Lewes), " but made up for the deficiency in no small degree 
by his affecting tenderness in other parts of the character. In Iago we 
found no redeeming points." On those who supported Kean on these 
occasions our critic was even more severe, and his criticism is a proof that 
in those days it was not only authors who were "booed." Of the Iago of 
Alexander Pope, an actor cursed with a good voice but a " face," to quote 
Leigh Hunt's savage attack on his performances, "as void of meaning as 
an oak wainscoat," our critic writes. "What this gentleman wants in soul, 
he amply makes up in body" — Pope was a great feeder — "not that we 
are disposed to quarrel with him, for really the good-natured manner in 
which he relates to the audience all his plans and contrivances, quite wins- 
our regard, only he should not show his teeth like a terrier in a cart, 
keeping watch over a bale of goods. Mr. Decamp got some well-merited 
hissing for buffooning Roderigo." And of the Othello of Mr. Sowerby,. 


The May Book 

an actor whose mind was said to be always in such a ferment that he 
constantly made the most ridiculous mistakes in his words, our critic says, 
"Of his Othello we need not say much ; the expressions of opinion were 
so violent that, theatrically speaking, we believe he may be considered 

In a general review of that great season from the January to the May 
•of 1 8 14, during which Kean made ,£20,000 for the Drury Lane manage- 
ment and a world-wide reputation for himself, the News solemnly 
pronounces him to be at a sweeping distance, longo proximas intervallo, 
behind John Kemble, and whilst admitting that his performances are 
marked by some striking" fits and starts of feeling, considers "these flashes 
in the pan but a poor compensation for hours of uninterrupted dulness ; 
for solemn pauses without the least meaning; for one never-changing 
expression of countenance, one eternal pointing of the finger, one 
systematic stamping of the foot." When Kean re-appeared in October 
as Richard III. our critic had not many observations to make, except 
to express his great pleasure in "noticing a reduction in the length of 
pauses, and in the exuberance of his finger manoeuvres." Macbeth was 
pronounced a very feeble, shallow, and imperfect embodiment of Shakes- 
peare's sublime creation; Richard II. had some merits; Zanga in "The 
Revenge," with his "haberdasher's heroics," Mr. Kean is advised to lay 
aside, for "if he takes many such strides as this, he will find his descent 
from his present eminence rather abrupt"; his Bajazet in "Tamerlane" 
gives occasion for a protest against the bond fide air which Kean gives to 
most of his parts, and by which his admirers are deluded ; " it is about as 
conclusive of the truth of his style as the firm conviction of a lunatic that 
he is Louis XVIII. or George III. is of his actually being so." The 
best feature of his performance of Duke Aranza in "The Honeymoon" 
was the dance, " in which he displayed much industrious agility, and 
which was loudly encored"; and as Florez in the "Beggars' Bush" he 
shows a deficiency of dignified repose and easy emphasis " that ought to 
effectually exclude him from the paths of genteel comedy." 

To those who, whether from mental infirmity or deliberate prejudice, 
refused to recognise genius in Kean's acting, its unevenness gave the cue 
for fault-finding. What Lewes termed the " irregular splendour of his 
power," what Coleridge described as " flashes of lightning by which he 
illuminated Shakespeare," what Hazlitt calls his "electrical shocks" or 
" hits," were to the scoffers mere oases in a wilderness of monkey-tricks. 


Some Forgotten Criticisms of Edmund Kean 

Again Kean by his naturalness and disregard of convention offended the 
upholders of the old school that inculcated a solemn and majestic de- 
portment in all circumstances of dramatic action. Kean's method was 
thought to be-too obtrusive and undisguised a display of nature, a kind 
of indecent exposure, not at all relished by the playgoers nursed in the 
sedate school of Kemble. 

It must be remembered too that Kemble was still in the field ; it was 
not until 1817 that he retired, having forfeited to Kean, in public estima- 
tion, a considerable portion of his repertoire. The man who could say, in 
criticisino- Kean's Othello, " the whole thing- is a mistake, the fact being 
Othello was a slow man," was bound to be swept from his monopoly of 
such characters by an actor whose greatest strength lay in his portrayal of 
the supreme moments of transported rage or passion. This became pain- 
fully apparent when Kean appeared as Sir Giles Overreach, and gave the 
terrific performance that is said to have thrown Lord Byron into convul- 
sions, and drew from Hazlitt the simple tribute, " he is truly a great 
actor." Though the critic of the News was gradually attaining to a 
position of solitary eminence, his note of disparagement even on this 
occasion was none the less distinct. Of Kean's last scene of frenzy, one 
of the immortal memories of our stage, he writes : " The rage and frenzy 
of Sir Giles in the last scenes might perhaps be more strongly expressed 
by Mr. Kean if his physical powers were more equal to the task — but they 
are not" ; and on revisiting the theatre he adds : " While we remember 
the petrifying exhibition of ghastly horror which Mr. Kemble made of the 
incident in the last scene of the play, we cannot but think Mr. Kean's a 
most feeble representation of Sir Giles' despair." A few nights later 
Kemble courted comparison by appearing as Sir Giles at Govent Garden, 
and was hissed. 

More indignant than ever with the obstinacy of the public infatuation,, 
our critic, on Kean appearing at the end of 1816, as Timon of Athens, 
felt it necessary to justify the continuance of his hostile attitude towards 
the favourite. " To turn from Shakespeare," he wrote : " from Timon to 
Mr. Kean, from our own ' beau ideal ' of this noble spirit of Athens to the 
matter-of-fact man of five feet, with a croaking voice, who gives himself 
out under his name at Drury Lane Theatre, is indeed a woeful bathos. 
We are so heartily sick (and our readers must have the same feeling) of 
repeating again and again our insurmountable objections to Mr. Kean, 
that if we are not silent altogether on the subject, it is from a painful sense 


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•of duty to the public." Continuing in this dutiful vein, he declares that 
Kean never rises to Shakespeare, but pulls the poet down to him, and 
that the poet after passing" through the medium of Kean comes out quite 
unrecognisable : " When Mr. Kean leant on his spade to depict the 
desolate despondency of Timon's soul, he merely looked like a tired 

When Junius Brutus Booth made his ineffectual attempt to wrest from 
Kean his laurels, the critic of the News lent him undisguised support. 
Whilst Booth is admitted to share the hindrance of personal disadvantages 
with his rival at the other house, he is commended for surmounting them 
in the only legitimate manner, that is by relying on the fair exertion of his 
resources, and giving his energies a plain, straightforward direction. How 
Kean's exertion of his resources could be described as unfair is a little 
difficult to comprehend ; but the last sentence of the criticism is a happy 
description of mediocrity and Booth. 

The production at Drury Lane, at the end of 1817, of a play called 
*' Richard Duke of York," being an arrangement of the three parts of 
Shakespeare's " Henry VI.," evoked from the critical chair of the News 
some delightful strictures on Kean and his supporters. Kean is re- 
proached for thinking tragedy cannot be made too familiar ; " in the hour 
of separation from all that is lovely and beloved, Mr. Kean never suffers 
himself to rise above the coolness of parting in Bond Street with an every- 
day acquaintance." He has plenty of demoniacal possession, but nothing 
of divine inspiration, which clearly proves him not to be a first-rate actor ; 
few and far between are his moments of successful exertion, but " we shall 
always be happy to point out to our readers whatever we can construe 
into an indication of sterling dramatic genius." " Mr. Pope," concludes 
our critic " in the sublime scene of the death of Cardinal Beaufort, died 
apparently of a surfeit, like an Alderman after his sixteenth plate of turtle. 
His stomach seemed to torture him far more than his conscience. That 
worst of bad actors, Mr. Maywood, performed Henry VI. He seemed to 
have set Shakespeare's blank verse to the tune of some of Sternhold and 
Hopkins' psalms." 

We must forgive our critic if his irritation against Kean seems to 
increase, for about this time he had indulged in a prophecy that was 
-showing little sign of fulfilment. He had, he said, observed signs of 
" decline and obscuration " about Kean, which, he thought, justified him 
in saying that the actor's admirers had seen the blaze of his descending 


Some Forgotten Criticisms of Edmund Kean 

glory, and that he was now hastening to his setting. If there was any 
lull in the tide of public admiration about this date, it did not last long- 
indeed until the Cox case in 1824, Kean's success showed few signs of 
abating. On the eve of that disastrous episode Kean had just emerged 
with fresh laurels from his contest with Charles Mayne Young, and scored 
one of his greatest successes as " King Lear." This almost uninterrupted 
progress must have been a perpetual source of mortification to the critic 
of the News ; it certainly did not mitigate the severity of his pronounce- 
ments ; his sense of duty was as acute as ever. 

On the date of December 5, 1824, two cuttings from the same paper 
are placed side by side. The one is a paragraph stating that Kean in 
the ensuing Drury Lane season is to play twenty nights and to receive as 
his salary for those twenty performances ^1000. The other paragraph 
states that Lord Chief Justice Abbott is to try the Middlesex causes in the 
King's Bench at Westminster, and that among them is the case of Cox v. 
Kean, which, in spite of rumours of a settlement, is still on^the list. This 
wretched case, the "little pin" that bored through the castle wall of 
Kean's victorious reputation, is fully reported in our book of cuttings. 
The correspondence with Mrs. Cox, that seems more shameful to those 
who published it in extenso than to the reckless man who penned it ; the 
culpable indiscretion of Kean in refusing to absent himself for a few 
weeks from the boards after the verdict given against him ; the pharisaical 
outcry against his misconduct, which in its fierceness and cruelty may fitly 
rank with that hurled at Lord Byron — all these are set out in extracts from 
various papers of the day. Kean, nothing if not combative, is roundly 
slated for daring to publicly express his indignation at the attacks levelled 
at him in the Times and other papers ; " the ' base press,' " says one extract, 
quoting Kean, "has nothing more to do with Kean's real offence and 
characteristic letters than it had to do with Thurtell's murder of Weare or 
Fauntleroy's infamously extensive forgeries." In the September of 1825 
Kean left England for America ; and with his departure closed the 
greatest chapter of his life. 

Our critic sees him when he returns to England three years later, and 
now at last he is justified in observing " tokens of decline and obscuration," 
the sun of his glory hastening to its setting. In the May of 1827 he 
notices the disastrous performance of Grattan's " Ben Nazir," when Kean, 
he says, delivered scarcely one passage as it was set down for him, and 
Wallack had to apologise in an uproar for the "bodily indisposition and 

57 h 

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mental annoyances " that had ruined the great actor's performance of the 
principal character. The ravages of disease, deficiency of energy, failure 
of memory, sudden indisposition are constantly referred to in our critic's 
notices ; but with these painful allusions there comes a tone of greater 
generosity in his criticism, a recognition of qualities of genius in Kean to 
which he had certainly not done sufficient justice in his earlier judgments. 
Kean is a great actor, every lover of the drama should see him, his is a 
soul of fire which^at times over-informs its tenement of clay, an extravagant, 
erring spirit; but he is withal a master. It is strange, says our critic — - 
but modern actors may not think it so, for Monday is generally considered 
rather a dull night — that Mr. Kean's Monday performances are always 
inferior to those of Thursday, his Lear of Monday pitiable, his Othello 
of Thursday "an exhibition of grandeur, pathos, and intellect such as we 
have scarcely ever beheld." 

In 1828 our critic has a curious footnote to a criticism of Kean's first 
performance of Virginius. He has accounted for the house on this 
occasion being only respectably filled by the fact that Kean, by his painful 
exhibition in "Ben Nazir " has made the public distrustful of him in a 
new part ; and in the footnote he adds, " Mr. Kean's professional fate has 
been somewhat remarkable. In the early part of his career it was the 
custom to praise him through thick and thin. We then, not choosing to 
swim with the stream, and having our eyes just as open as at present to 
his faults, objected to this undistinguishing laudation. Now, the case is 
reversed. It is the fashion to undervalue Mr. Kean, although, so far as 
his physical powers serve, time and experience have made him a better 
actor than ever." With this last extract we may bid farewell to the critic 
of the News. In his anxiety not to swim with the stream and join in the 
chorus of undistinguishing laudation that echoed about Kean's early 
triumphs, he went too far in the direction of censure, and so showed 
himself to be the unfortunate possessor of a small mind. No one 
was more alive to Kean's faults than Hazlitt, but he had the breadth 
of vision that cannot be blinded to what is great and notable by the 
imperfections that accompany all human effort. Consequently he has 
left criticisms that endure as inspiring and instructive attempts to 
give a permanent impression of the triumphs of a great actor. Our 
friend in the critical chair leaves us with a comfortable assurance that 
it is impossible, even to genius, to please everybody, with a feeling of 
gratitude for the amusement which his outspoken prejudice affords to 


Some Forgotten Criticisms of Edmund Kean 

those who are not its victims, and a feeling of deep sympathy for Mr. 
May wood. 

We may conclude with a passage from the Athenaum of 1831, 
which sadly illustrates the broken actor's declining hold on the public. 
"We see him now at the Haymarket (in Richard III.) with much 
satisfaction, making allowance, of course, for a certain degree of bodily 
feebleness which cannot be averted. In this, as we said before, consists 
nearly, if not quite, all the difference between what he is and what he 
was ; and it therefore remains for his more vehement admirers to explain 
why they have ceased to be his followers ; and why those of them who 
do go now let his best points fall flat upon the stage and blunt them- 
selves. His 'so much for Buckingham' on Monday week was equal to 
anything we ever heard from him, or any one else, and better than we 
have sometimes heard it from himself ; yet but little notice was taken of it." 
The fickleness of the public has become proverbial, perhaps more prover- 
bial than it deserves to be ; at any rate it must be admitted that Kean 
had sorely tried the patience of even his most devoted admirers. Their 
gradual desertion of the great actor, after he came back to them, is far more 
easily justified than the shrieking outcry against him that had driven him 
from his country. He returned from America in 1827 to find that the 
public had condescended to forgive a scandal, which certainly had about 
it many circumstances of palliation, as far as Kean was concerned ; there 
was ample ground for suspecting that he had been throughout the victim 
of a designing couple. But their forgiveness came too late. Kean had 
drunk the cup of humiliation and it had poisoned his whole being. He 
had lost his self-respect, degraded his faculties by inebriety, become bitter 
and vindictive in his feelings towards mankind. He could offer to the 
public nothing but the repertoire with which they had been for ten years 
familiar ; he was unable to undertake new characters ; the unevenness 
of his acting became more pronounced ; his moments of greatness rarer 
and less energetic. His decline, illuminated by flashes of the old spirit, 
was rapid and unmistakable. No longer capable of facing the anxieties 
of a London season, having abandoned a projected tour in America, he 
became, in 1831, lessee of the Richmond Theatre; but his performances 
proved a poor attraction. His last performance, Othello to his son's 
Iago, took place at Covent Garden on March 25, 1833. On May 14 
following he was dead. 

" I have lived," wrote Fanny Kemble, "among those whose theatrical 


The May Book 

creed would not permit them to acknowledge Kean as a great actor ; but 
they must be bigoted indeed who would deny that he was a great 
genius — a man of most original and striking powers, careless of art, 
perhaps because he did not need it, but possessing those rare gifts of 
nature without which art is a dead body. If he was irregular and 
unsatisfactory in his performance, so is Niagara compared with the 
waterworks of Versailles. " The critic of the News was on the side of 
the waterworks ; posterity, informed by the highest judgments, is on the 
side of Niagara. 

We wish we could say a word for the corpulent Mr. Pope, the 
chanting Maywood, or the dim, elusive Sowerby ; but of these time has 
left not even the passing tribute that would be paid to an efficient 


Contributed l<y Marion H. Spielmaim 

The Earl of March mont 
By Sir Godfrey Kneller 

The Superseded 


As newer comers crowd the fore 

We drop behind . . . 
We who have laboured long and sore 

Times out of mind, 
And keen are yet, must not regret 

To drop behind. 


Yet there are of us some who grieve 

To go behind ; 
Staunch, strenuous souls who scarce believe 

Their fires declined, 

And know none cares, remembers, spares 

Who go behind. 

The Superseded 

'Tis not that we have unforetold 

The drop behind ; 
We feel the new must oust the old 

In every kind, 
But yet, we think, must we, must we, 

Too, drop behind? 



Come, you children, sing and play, 
First of May is holiday. 

A Lost Likeness 


R. E. Francillon 

ING, Archer, Smith, Maxwell, Brady, and myself were 
chatting and smoking the other evening in Deane's studio. 
The talk had rambled to the not uncommon subject of 
apparitions ; and — 

"That's all very well," said Archer, our sceptic-in- 
chief, "but it comes to this, that while every one of us— except Dick 
Deane — has known somebody who knew somebody who had seen, or 
heard, or felt, some sort of a spook, not one of us has ever met 
one " 

"Which speaks well for our digestions and our sobriety," interrupted 

" It does. And there you are." 

"Why, where I've always found myself. Among people who are 
quite sure in their hearts that other folk have seen ghosts, or doubles, or 
wraiths, or other bogies, but are equally sure in their heads that there are 
no such things. Where's the logic ? Now if one of us had seen one — 
but there isn't : and there never is : never. We've none of us got beyond 
second-hand hearsay : which means that we've all known people who eat 
too much, or drink too much, or dream too much." 

" Do you fellows remember Philip Glint ? " suddenly asked Deane. 

"No"; and "No"; and "No"; and "Who was he?" and "Why, 
Dick, you're not going to set up for a ghost-seer." 


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" No," said Deane, shortly. " But the awful bosh you fellows have 

been talking " 


"Yes — the awful bosh — puts me in mind of something — which, on 
the whole, I think I'll proceed at once to forget again." 

" Oh, but that's not fair." — " If you don't make a clean breast of it, we 
shall suppose that you murdered What's-his-Name, and employ him to 
paint your pictures." — "Out with it. Dick." 

" Must I ? Well — perhaps some of you clever fellows will be able to 
explain it : and I won't say but that if you could, my mind would be a bit 
lighter. But no bosh, mind! If you can give me a good, square, solid 
theory, that'll hold water at all points, do. If ycu can't, you'll be good 
enough to hold your tongues. And, in any case, you must give me, each 
and all, your solemn promises to believe what I say." 

"All right. We swear!" 

The oath was superfluous. Dick Deane was notoriously as incapable 
of improving a fact as of flattering a sitter. 

" Those," he abruptly began, after a minute's consultation with his 
pipe, "who knew Philip Glint didn't know much about him. I knew 
him, I think, better than anybody : but better wasn't well. He was a 
good-looking young fellow, in a way ; not a millionaire, but with money 
enough to live without working- and to make it worth while to take care 
of the pounds — you know the sort I mean : not what you'd call penny- 
wise, but at any rate shilling-wise. Altogether, it's easier to say what he 
wasn't than what he was. There was nothing you could call noticeable 
about him in looks or style : and yet, somehow, you did notice him. 
His good looks were quite of the common sort — nothing to remember: 
and yet, somehow, you did remember them. He never said anything 
specially worth saying, and he hadn't one of those voices or manners that 
give value to nothings : yet, somehow, if he said ' Fine day, isn't it ? ' you 
felt as if you hadn't known it was a fine day till then, and did know it 
now. He was very quiet. He never put himself forward ; rather the 
other way. I never knew him excited, or out of temper, or different from 
one day to another by the fraction of a hair. He had no hobbies, no 
tastes, no accomplishments, no peculiarities, no follies, no vices " 

" What an insufferable — " Maxwell broke in. 

" That's the odd part of it : he wasn't. On the contrary, he was quite 


A Lost Likeness 

good company. He wasn't clever enough to make anybody else feel 

small. He was the best listener I ever heard " 

" You can't hear a listener, Dick." 

"Can't you, though! He never jarred: he had the sort of tact, 
sympathy, whatever you call it, which some women have — and some 
haven't : he was restful — that's the word I've been trying for. One liked 
to have him about : one could be as free and alone with him as without 
him. No : Phil Glint, for all his ladylikeness, wasn't a prig : and for all 
his colourlessness, he wasn't a bore. I never once felt the slightest desire 
to kick him : and of how many men can one say that ? Yet I shouldn't 
have liked him as well as I did if he hadn't given an impression of being 
possibly dangerous to anybody who wouldn't take him as he chose to be 
taken. Generally, the notion that a man doesn't like chaff acts as a 
challenge to provoke him. Nobody ever chaffed Phil Glint. Except 
once " 

"And then?" 

"A dead silence : followed, after a week or two, by the emigration of 
the humorist to Manitoba." 

" Who's talking bosh now ? " 

"I'm not saying it was cause and effect. I'm only stating a sequence 
of facts — nothing more. But, to finish off Phil Glint's picture — I think 1 
spoke of his friends ; if I did, I put in a false stroke. I doubt if he had 
what we mean by a friend. He would help anybocly and everybody : I 
don't mean with money only — that's nothing — but with time and trouble. 
But he never gave a confidence, so far as I know, to a human soul. By 
the time I'd known Phil Glint a twelvemonth I no more knew who his 
people were, or where he'd been at school, or where he came from, or 
what he'd been doing with himself before I met him, than " 

" It sounds," suggested Archer, "as if either his origin or his career 
were in need of a veil. '' 

" No. Whatever he wasn't, he was a gentleman. It was just 
natural reticence, and a notion that he wasn't interesting. Some men are 
like that : though it's very hard for the likes of us, who can't help 
knowing how interesting we are, to understand." 

" How did you get to know him ? " 

" There you beat me. I've tried to remember, and can't. He just, 
as it were, walked into my life, hung his hat up, and stayed. It might 
have been at some such diggings as this, and we might have walked part 


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of our ways home together, but then it might have been any of twenty 
things. There was nothing dramatic about it, anyhow. By the way, 
though, to be quite accurate, there was just one queer thing about him, 
though I said there was none. Nobody ever saw the inside of his rooms 
— not even I." 

"A lady in the case," said Archer. " I begin to see." 

" But out of the question. Besides, he didn't keep his address dark; 
only it was always changing, so one used to write to him at the club, for 
safety. That's where he did all his hospitalities : and very well he did 
them, too. 

"Well, then, after I'd known him in this sort of way for some months, 
I took it into my head to fall in love : and, as it was with the lady who is 
now Mrs. Richard Deane, I can say so without calling up phantoms of a 
dead past, and that sort of thing. We weren't a romantic couple even in 
our pre-matrimonial days. But Mrs. Deane had a sister Amy that was 
romantic enough for six couple. She lived with us after we married ; 
and I noticed, or rather my wife noticed, that Phil Glint took to dropping 
in remarkably often, quite irrespectively of any chance of seeing Me. 
She also noticed that her sister seemed much more interested in his visits 
than she approved. For, somehow, my wife didn't take to Phil Glint. I 
don't know why, and she herself could never tell me." 

"It often happens like that between a man's wife and his bachelor 
friends," said Brady, with all the oracular confidence of an unmarried 

" Not with mine. I knew most of you here before I'd ever heard of 
Mrs. Deane : and she likes you all — I'm hanged if I know why, anymore 
than I know to this day why she didn't like Phil. She didn't ; and that's 
all. She was kind to him, as 'tis her nature to : but she always said that 
he gave her the cold creeps whenever she was in the same room with 
him, or even heard his foot upon the stair. I never felt the cold creeps 
myself : but they sound as if they'd be nasty things to have, whatever 
they are. 

" For one thing, between you and me, she had a great notion of our 
parting with Amy to a fellow named Frank Welwood — as good a sort as 
you'd find even in our set, though he was clean out of it : officer in a 
crack regiment, and heir to a baronetcy and some thousands a year. Not 
knowing just what was in her head — then — I was pleased enough to learn, 
from her, that there seemed a good chance of her sister becoming, as 


A Lost Likeness 

Mrs. Philip Glint, the wife of a man whom I liked, who seemed well off, 
who had no vices, and would be altogether easy and pleasant to drive. 
So I didn't feel quite easy and pleasant to drive, myself, when my wife 
kept asking me, every other hour, ' But, Dick, who is he ? What is he ? 
Who are his family ? How has he been living ? What church does he 
go to ? How do you know he's not a coiner, or a forger, or a burglar? 
How do you know he hasn't got forty wives with forty children apiece? 
Why can't Mr. Welwood ever call without finding him here too? And 
why can't I be in the same house with him without the cold creeps even 
when there's a fire? ' It was a worry : for I couldn't answer such of her 
questions as were reasonable without passing them on to Phil Glint himself, 
and questioning Phil Glint — nobody could do that : nobody had ever 
done it : you could no more think of doing it than 

" Well. One day he came to see me — Me this time, and not Amy. 

" ' Deane,' said he — he never Dicked me, like you impudent ruffians — ■ 
' I want you to do me a favour. It's — it's possible ' — (there was just that 
hesitation about him) — 'that' — (I'm trying to imitate his awkwardness, 
which was something quite new) — 'that — circumstances may occur — things 
may happen — that — I shouldn't like to be forgotten — and I've never done 
anything to be remembered — and, in short — you and Mrs. Deane, and 
Miss Hayes ' (meaning Amy) 'have been so kind to me that I shouldn't 
like you to be without a souvenir — of a very grateful — man. . . . Look 
here, Deane. I've got a fancy. You may call it, if you like, a whim. 
Paint my portrait, as a matter of business, you know — just as I am ; you're 
the very man to do that ; and if Miss Hayes would kindly take care of it 
for me — one doesn't want one's own picture to be always staring at one, 
you know — I shall be grateful for all your lives long.' 

" This was an odd speech to come from almost any man : it was the 
oddest of odd speeches to come from Phil Glint. He was evidently 
under the influence of some strong emotion : that is to say, in a state 
which made him a stranger to me, and it pleased me to find the imper- 
turbable Phil Glint capable of any sort of emotion whatever, especially if 
Amy was the cause. Men like him, when unused to that particular sort 
of emotion, are bound to take it awkwardly. His awkwardnesses were 
no doubt — I thought — only the clumsy trimmings of a simple request 
that I should paint his portrait because he wanted to do a good turn to a 
friend who wasn't too flourishing, and an excuse for giving his likeness to 
the girl he loved for some sentimental purpose that no doubt she would 


The May Book 

understand. It was such a floundering way of coming to the point that I 
liked hiin at that moment even better than I liked him before. He 
wasn't only a well-oiled automaton, after all." 

" And so," said Smith, " you accepted the job, and refused the pay." 

" I accepted the job, and I didn't refuse the pay. Why should I ? 
I was an unknown artist who had committed matrimony, of which I was 
about to face certain imminent consequences ; the wife would — and very 
reasonably too — have objected to my giving my time for nothing to what 
I knew she would dislike ; and my subject wasn't interesting enough to 
do me any good beyond what could be counted in money. I realised this 
more and more as, day after day, Phil Glint came to my studio. Good- 
looking — yes ! but what are good looks if they are absolutely, hopelessly 
commonplace, without one thing in them which goes to a picture ? You 
know how I depend on my subject — painting things as they are is my 
notion of art : and if Phil Glint hadn't been Phil Glint, or if I could have 
afforded to lose the order, I should have sent him with my compliments 
to the nearest photographer. 

" I forgot to say that it was a grand point with him that the portrait 
should be finished not a minute later than the first of November : which 
wasn't p;ivino; a slow worker like me too much time. The shortness of 
the allowance, though, had one unexpectedly good effect. As it got 
shorter it made a wonderful improvement in the sitter. Anything like 
delay made him as impatient as he knew how to be ; it brightened his 
eyes, and put an alert eagerness into them that I had never seen in them 
before. There was a background and business to fill up the canvas ; 
curtains behind the figure, and that spindle-legged table there between 
the windows for his right hand to rest upon : it was his own fancy — he 
said the table reminded him of old times ; the only hint I ever had of his 
having had any old times to be recalled. 

" The picture was finished, to all intents and purposes, by the last 
daylight of the first of November. He stayed to dinner, spent the even- 
ing with the three of us, and when the ladies went to bed, came with me 
into the studio for a pipe before going home. We had a fire ; he sat in 
an armchair — the one that Archer's sitting in now — on one side of it, and 
I opposite him in the other. I noticed, as we came upstairs, that the 
street-door had been bolted and chained ; I suppose the girl thought- — if 
girls do think — that Glint had gone. The picture was on the easeh where 
I had left it in the afternoon, with the last colours still wet. Glint's eyes 


A Lost Likeness 

went to it at once, and I could see that it was somehow curiously on his 
mind. But he didn't speak of it. That was always his way. He never 
would open himself. I don't believe he knew how. 

" ' What do you think is the very worst thing that could happen to a 
man ? ' asked he, in the gravely comfortable kind of way that one starts a 
speculative question that doesn't concern oneself a straw. 

"'That's rather a vague question,' I said. 'Whatever happens, 
there's always something worse that doesn't. And doesn't it rather 
depend on the man ? To one, the utmost possible worst might be 
remorse for some irreparable crime : to another, a badly starched neck- 

" ' No : I mean a worst — the worst — for all. Remorse would be pretty 
bad, I suppose : but then wouldn't it be worse to be without the conscience 
that gives it ? And as to the neck-tie, I suppose there is always a 
conceivably worse laundress than the worst we have ever known. There's 
only one thing you can't beat for badness. And that's being dead and — 

" ' My dear fellow ! why, it's only the common lot — the universal 
doom ' 

" No : it isn't. It hardly ever happens. Tell me one single, solitary 
instance, within your own knowledge, of any human being who has been 
forgotten ? ' 

" ' How can I ? If I could, I should be remembering him : and then 
he wouldn't be forgotten. However, take some Egyptian who didn't 
build a pyramid ' 

" ' He was remembered by somebody : who was remembered by 
somebody else : who was remembered by yet another somebody — one 
way or other, it all went on. But it isn't thousands of years afterwards 
that matter. The thing is— Hang it, Deane, you know what I mean.' 

"I'm hanged if I did : but he gave me no time to say so. 

"'Look here,' he went on, ' would you like to be dead, feeling that 
there wasn't a soul to think of you kindly ? ' 

" ' Oh, but somebody would,' I said, rather feebly, I'm afraid. ' Besides, 
I don't know : I've never tried.' 

'"No: you've never tried : that's true. And you never will try. But 
I — but there are, have been, one or two who have tried, and do, therefore, 
know all it means. And I — I tell you, Deane, it means the worst — the 
worst — of all. Well. That's all right. If they could come back, and 

7 1 

The May Book 

get somebody that likes them to make a Memory of them for somebody 
they like, as you've done for me in that portrait, it would make just all the 
difference. You must see that, surely. It's as clear as day.' 

" For one moment while he was speaking I should have thought him 
positively excited over his argument had he been any other man. He 
ended, however, as quietly and impersonally as he had begun, and, 
smiling rather absently as if at his own paradox, took out his watch— it 
was nearly midnight, and he knew that under the present regime we kept 
moderately early hours. 'Twenty minutes to twelve yet,' said he. I 
looked at mine, and made it ten minutes only : but I didn't say so, as it 
would have seemed as if I were in a hurry for him to say good-night 
and go. 

"The talk changed, and I was glad of it: for I hate nonsensical talk 
that can't lead anywhere. I can't tell you any more of it : my impression 
is that it was sane and sensible enough : and I have told you that Glint 
was a first-rate listener. It might have been ten minutes or so after he 
had looked at his watch that I was saying something about — I think it 
was about the vagaries of sitters — when Phil Glint, without leaving that 
chair, disappeared : just melted into the air before my eyes." 


"That's all," said Deane. 

" My dear old Dick," said Archer, after a general pause for digestion, 
"that you've been extemporising a yarn I don't believe. It isn't in you. 
But I can quite understand that a bore like Glint, talking psychological 
balderdash, set you napping : and he, being a man of tact, as you say he 
was, went off quietly without waking you " 

"And never," said Deane, "from that minute to this, did I set eyes 
on Philip Glint again." 

"Well: that's not unaccountable, either. You were a creditor, you 
see : and there might have been others " 

" No. He didn't leave the house in debt, or in any other explicable 
way. The clothes he wore vanished with him : but his great coat and 
hat were left on a peg in the passage, and his umbrella in the stand. 
And the street door was still bolted, chained, and locked inside." 

" And you never even heard of him again ? " 

" Never. Nor anybody else. It was as if he had never been. He 
had left the last lodgings we knew of for quite a long time — I've told you 
how he used to shift : they didn't know where he had gone, and he never 


A Lost Likeness 

had any letters. In fact, it was just as if — as if — well, it's Mrs. Deane's 
theory, not mine, mind — as if he'd come from another world and gone 
back again." 

"And the portrait ?" asked Maxwell — I suppose for want of anything 
else to say. " Have you got it still ? " 

" Oh yes. I didn't give it to Amy. We — my wife and I — didn't tell 
her anything. She was a sensitive (I don't mean sensible) young woman : 
and it seemed better, on the whole, to let her think Glint had never meant 
anything, and had gone off to Central Africa, than for her to fancy herself 
in love with a Ghost." 

"Well, if it was a Ghost," said Smith, "all the more reason for seeing 
his picture. You ought to have exhibited that portrait, Dick, and put the 
story in the catalogue." 

" I don't much care to show it. It isn't good as a picture : and I've 
never looked at it myself since — then. But — well — I don't mind so much 
now. It ought to be in that press, the bottom of half a dozen spoiled 
canvases with their faces to the wall." 

" Have it out, Dick! One doesn't see the portrait of a Ghost every 

" If you will — here goes for a rummage in a dust-heap," said Dick, 
throwing off his smoking jacket and burying his upper half in the recesses 
of a large cupboard in the wall. " Here you are! " he said, after a long 
exploration, as he lugged out a largish canvas. " Marked ' P. G.,' and 
the date when finished, on the back. That's poor Phil," he said, setting 
it on a chair in the full light of a gas jet. 

We crowded round, while Deane was putting the lumber of the cup- 
board into manageable order. Then, having looked at the canvas, we 
stared at one another. 

" Hulloa, Dick," said Brady, "isn't there something missing here ?" 

" Missing?" 

" There does seem to be, somehow. There are the curtains — just as 
you described : and there's the spindle-legged table — a capital portrait it 
is, too. But — where' s your ghostly friend ? " 

Dick came to the picture, and then rubbed his eyes. Well he might : 
even he, who never dreamed, must have thought himself dreaming. 
There was no figure to be seen : only a transparent greyish film where a 
full length figure might have been. 

" I can only give you my word of honour ! " cried Dick, who 

73 K 

The May Book 

never used solemn phrases lightly. "The man vanished: and the 
picture has vanished too. Make what you can of it. I've nothing 
to say." 

" Is your sister-in-law married ?" asked King, who had been the only 
silent member of our company. 

"Yes," said Dick absently: "Amy has been Lady Welwood these 
ten years. But what has that got to do " 

"With the last struggle of a forgotten soul to be remembered? . . . 
Poor soul ! " 


First Sketch for "New Laid Eggs ' 
By Sir John Millais, P.R.A. 


Merely Beautiful 

The Maestro obligingly tried her voice, and twirled on the stool where 
he sat ; 

He said: "You've a gift but you never will sing till you open your 

mouth like that. 

(And it makes a grimace that is death to the face when you open your 

mouth like that.) 

They said at the school that her talent for art was one that they 

viewed with surprise, 
But that if she would paint she must dress like a guy and frequently 

screw up her eyes. 
(And wrinkles come thick and remarkably quick to the ladies that 

screw up their eyes.) 

Her lyrics were charming but wanting in depth ; 'twas thought they 

would never be right 
Till she'd known a great sorrow, that ages the face and makes the hair 

rapidly white. 

(And a frown crossed her forehead, for that she thought horrid ; she 
much preferred auburn to white.) 

She 's the loveliest hair and a rose-petal skin, and the bluest of wondering 

eyes ; 

Every horse in the street as it sees her approach kicks madly with 
rapture and shies. 

(And you really are fair — that's a fact I can swear — when a horse can 
detect it and shies.) 


Merely Beautiful 

But the gifts of the gods she has thrown in the dust ; her beauty is all 
that she's got. 

Can she sing, can she paint, can she write out her heart ? All this might 

have been but is not. 
(And without all the three, Oh, I wish she loved me ! But I'm sorry 

to say she does not.) 



" Geen Baceler " 


Elizabeth Robins 

NE is quite sure, on reflection, that love of Make-believe 
is more deeply implanted in the human breast than any 
concern about truth. 

To the mind unjaundiced by years this business of 
saying sooth is like the foot-rule or the spirit-level — a 
useful means to certain dull mechanical ends, but a poor, a servile thing, 
born to drag the chain. Not alone the myth-maker, the poet, and the 
novelist who are lured along the lanes of fancy — but every creature that 
is born human, walks that way while youth is with him. 

Before the pure outlines of infancy are blurred by repeated corrections, 
the superiority, the splendid necessity of Make-believe is perhaps the 
clearest perception of the untrammelled intelligence. It is one of the few 
things no child has to be taught. Indeed, a good many bewildered little 
sons of men have fallen on their first evil days in learning that to be 
good and to be grown up (terms synonymous) involve a casting away of 
Make-believe, unless, retaining this shred or that, you give some pre- 
concerted signal, like ringing a bell to take up a playhouse curtain, or 
like printing the word " Romance" on the title-page of a book, lest any 
one should find himself more convinced than was good for him. " Another 
way," as the cook books have it, is to say unimaginatively to the child at 
your knee, " Now I'll tell you a story," which clearly spoils the fun, since 
making a story is the opposite of making believe. 

The odd thing about it is that, in one sense, the child is not really 


The May Book 

deceived any more than the grown man — only the child observes more 
rigidly the rules of the game. 

Little Jack Farnborough, for instance, is not old enough to realise that 
in admitting to this game a person stricken in years — stricken even to the 
extent of a score — you must take into account his slow-moving, ethic- 
clogged fancy and give him a clue ; just as you daren't leave it to his 
unaided dulness to know that what you have drawn on your slate is not a 
windmill, but a knight in armour, and that you simply have to drag your 
brother about by the heels since he is Hector and you are Achilles. 

It is not improbable that Jack's prospects in life will be permanently 
blighted by his loyalty to the rules of the game. 

For the first years of his existence he was the favourite grandchild of 
the rich and somewhat eccentric old Mrs. Farnborough. He maintained 
this proud position even after the birth of an astute Jacob of a younger 
brother, in spite, or possibly because of the fact that Jack did everything 
at the earliest possible moment, except talk. The proficiency of three 
elder sisters left him cold. He didn't and he wouldn't try to learn more 
than a scant tourist's vocabulary (barely sufficient for a lordly young 
traveller in an alien land) until his younger brother was prepared to take 
part in the conversation. It is quite clear that this younger brother will 
cost Jack dear. But at the time that old Mrs. Farnborough lost her 
emerald bracelet, the young Jacob had only recently arrived, and Jack 
still carried on intercourse with his fellows, much as though they were 
creatures of some barbarian tribe, whose lingo it wouldn't repay him to 
master. Nevertheless in his own eloquent way, he conveyed approval of 
his grandmother's country place, her dogs and horses, her pigs and 
chickens, her sweetmeats, her great bunch of seals and her somewhat 
barbaric taste in jewellery. The old lady was accustomed to see children 
flee at the sight of her brown nutcracker face and towering head-dress, 
into which she fastened violent-hued ribbons and jewelled ornaments. 
Jack would stare solemnly at each new combination, and towards the 
more outrageous results he would stretch out clutching little hands and 
grunt a crescendo of avaricious delight, till the infatuated old lady, in high 
good humour, would unbuckle paste clasps and things of price, and 
let the child play with them as he sat in her lap. She was amazed at his 
infant taste and intelligence, and had him constantly with her. He was 
even thought worthy of going to church in her company. Jack's nurse > 
who had abundant proof that the young gentleman made up in other 


" Geen Baceler " 

ways for any backwardness he might evince in speech, respectfully 
pointed out that Master Jack had never yet been to Divine Service, and 
when pressed for the absent mother's reason for this neglect, Matilda 
feebly opined that it must be because " Master Jack was that un- 

Old Mrs. Farnborough was convinced that young Mrs. Farnborough 
didn't understand boys — having so many girls had enfeebled her views 
of life. Of course Jack should go to church. And behold, true to his 
character for unexpectedness, he covered himself with glory. He had 
stared speechless with amazement at the processional, and had smiled 
and drummed softly with his fingers while they sang ; he had followed 
the very sermon with a solemnity and attention that left nothing to be 
desired. Mrs. Farnborough was enchanted. It was easy to see the child 
had inherited her interest in affairs ecclesiastic. The boy would be a 

It was that very day at luncheon that Mrs. Farnborough missed her 
emerald bracelet. She sent her maid upstairs for it. The maid was 
gone a long time, and returned to say it wasn't anywhere to be seen. 
Mrs. Farnborough scolded the maid, and sent her back to look again. 
The young woman didn't reappear, and Mrs. Farnborough hobbled 
upstairs, to find her maid in tears, the room in confusion, and no emerald 
bracelet anywhere. The other servants were called and interrogated, 
and for the greater part of the afternoon everybody was hunting high 
and low. 

Everybody, that is, except Matilda and Master Jack, who had come 
in from a walk and gone to the big bare room opening on the garden, 
where generations of children had played, and kicked the wainscot, and 
battered the high brass fender, and otherwise passed the time in summers 
long gone by. 

In the midst of one of Mrs. Farnborough's harangues to her quaking 
servants — some of whom were losing their Sunday out "all along of that 
old peacock's finery " — the ancient lady suddenly bethought her of Matilda. 
She would go down and arraign her. Arrived at the play-room door, she 
flung it open as if she expected to find Matilda gloating over the bracelet 
at that precise instant. But Matilda had fallen asleep over a book, and 
Jack, with his nightgown over his clothes and a dark woollen comforter 
hung stole-like round his hot little neck, was standing up in a high chair 
at the end of the long room, facing all the other chairs ranged in 

8l L 

The May Book 

symmetrical rows. He balanced "The Child's Animal Book" on the 
back of the high chair, and was intoning; in an unknown tongue, but with 
a pious volubility that recalled vividly the Rev. Ganthorny's performance 
of the morning. Mrs. Farnborough's fury abated before the touching 
spectacle. She sat down not far from Matilda, in the nearest "pew," 
and Jack, never pausing, went on, with the face of a seraph and the 
added zest imparted by the presence of an audience which has not gone 
to sleep. His grandmother was melted almost to tears. The boy's 
leaning towards the Church was unmistakable. She bowed her tired 
old head, with its incongruous decoration, on the back of the chair before 
her. Jack understood this signal. His grandmother was really playing 
up very well. He knelt down and mumbled a low despairing monotone ; 
.and when the fun of that palled, he stood up and sang " Here we go 
round the mulberry bush," the first strains of which waked up Matilda, 
and recalled Mrs. Farnborough to the affairs of this world. 

Matilda knew nothing of the bracelet, and offered angrily to have her 
box searched, which was promptly done, with no effect beyond the further 
enraging of Matilda. 

It was an inspiration of the tea hour, that, after all, the person who 
had abstracted the bracelet was Jack. The only time he had cried since 
his arrival had been when he wasn't allowed to clasp that very bracelet 
round the neck of the cat. All the servants in a chorus of relief remem- 
bered seeing Master Jack either looking at the trinket with longing eyes 
•or trying to coax it off Mrs. Farnborough's wrist. 

The young gentleman was called into the drawing-room and the case 
put to him. But the recital bored him. He stood by his grandmother 
shifting from one foot to another. Yes, he was uneasy, that the old lady 
:saw. But she would be very kind and very wise with this innocent little 
•creature, who had been encouraged to look upon a lady's trinkets as a 
•dispensation of a thoughtful Providence for the entertainment of little 
iboys. He naturally didn't want to disgorge a pretty shiny green toy with 
a snap and a little chain. 

"Now, darling" — Mrs. Farnborough smoothed her grandson's hair 
— " you thought you might play with it, didn't you ? " 

" Hm — hm — " said Jack, indifferently. 

"Yes, dear." (What a comfort the child had not been frightened into 
telling lies.) " And so you took the bracelet, didn't you ? " 
" M — t," he grunted, shaking his head. 


" Geen Baceler " 

, " Now, darling, tell the truth." 

His attention wandered to the Brazilian beetle in her cap. 

"Listen, my pet. I'm not the least angry with you." Jack's 
indifference was profound. " Where is it, Jackie? Tell your own dear 
grandmamma." Jackie yawned. "Come, come now, listen dear." She 
shook him gently. "You took the pretty green bracelet to play with, 
didn't you, my angel ? " 

He shook his head, but slowly ; the old lady's tone was so appealing, 
he seemed reluctant to fall below her genial expectation. Suddenly she 
had an inspiration. She hobbled to the Japanese cabinet where, in 
wonderful little drawers lived an inexhaustible store of wonderful sugar 
joys. Jack's eyes sparkled. If the affair tended this way it was worth 
consideration. But Mrs. Farnborough stopped, with her beringed and 
bony hand in the nearest drawer, and looked at Jack. 

" If you are a good boy you shall have some." Jack grinned and 
nodded hopefully. " Will you be good? " 

" Yeh. ,r 

" Very well, then confess you took the green bracelet." 
" Yeh." 

" Aha ! so you really did take it ? " 

"Yeh — yeh!" He was sure he was on the right track now. He 
held out both hands. 

"Where did you put it? " His look clouded. There was to be a lot 
of ceremony about these bonbons. 

" Can't you remember ? " 

He shook his curls despairingly. 

" Poor little boy — try ! " 

He tiptoed up, endeavouring vainly to see into the drawer. 
" If I give you one, will you try to think?" 

"Yeh!" He showed his milk-white teeth in an obliging smile. Out 
of the cabinet came a beautiful pink bonbon, and he crunched it with 

" Now remember you are to try and think." She took him on her lap. 
"Yeh," he said with his mouth full. But his mind seemed to wander 
from the point. 

" Now attend to me, young man ! Where — have — you — put — the — 
green — bracelet?" said Mrs. Farnborough, in the same gruff staccato 
in which Matilda recited the " Fee-Faw-Fum." Jack's brown eyes 


The May Book 

twinkled. He hadn't quite got the hang of this game, but it evidently- 
had possibilities. 

Mrs. Farnborough caught the look of merry intelligence and was sure 
she was on the track of her property. 

" Come," she said indulgently, "shall we go and find the pretty green 
bracelet ? " 

" Yeh," agreed Jack readily, scrambling down off her lap. 
" Come then where shall we go ? " 

Jack expressed a modest preference for the direction of the Japanese 

" Yes, after you give me back the bracelet." She led the way to the 
door. " You shall have three bonbons and the new black kitten." 
Jack's eyes sparkled. "Come upstairs, and I'll show you where you 
found it, and that will help you to remember where you put it." He 
trotted gaily after his grandmother, evidently much diverted at her un- 
wonted activity, and pleased to find her so agile a playfellow. " Now," 
puffed the old lady, arriving at her own room, " it was here you remember 
— on this cushion." He nodded. " And my dear little Jack came in and 
saw it." 

Dear little Jack looked dubious. 

" Now, now be careful ! " the old lady frowned. " It's wicked to tell 

Jack's face fell. 

" You came in, and there was nobody here, and you saw something- 

" Yeh ? " he ventured with reviving hope, tiptoeing up to inspect the 

" And you took the pretty bracelet off the cushion ? " She waited. 
" Yeh ! " 

" Yes, that's right, tell the truth— and you took it away? " 

" Yeh ! yeh ! " He was getting the hang of the game after all. 

" And you put it — where ? " 

The child looked about as if considering. 

" Now come," said his grandmother, fired to a superhuman briskness. 
She took him by the hand. Jack capered with anticipation. " You took 
it off the pincushion like this " 

" Yeh, yeh ! " 

"And then you went — where did you go?" She followed the infant's 


Sir Henry Irving 
By Hamilton Maclure 

" Geen Baceler " 

dancing eyes. "Behind the door? Of course! We never looked 
there." Behind the door they went : Nothing. Nobody more surprised 
apparently than Jack. 

" And after you had played with it behind the door ; then where did 
you go ? " 

Jack's birdlike glance seemed to suggest under the table was a good 
place, then behind the curtains, in a sort of stately hide and seek, suited 
to one's grandmother, and finally under the great valanced and curtained 
bed. Mrs. Farnborough carried her aged bones and her nodding cap 
into many an unwonted ' place that afternoon, and Jack's good spirits 
mounted with each new adventure. 

At last when Matilda appeared to take him off to bed, the fun was at 
its height. Jack was jigging wildly at the growing excitement of this 
sudden power of his to cause boxes and doors to fly open and reveal their 
contents by the mere magic of those syllables "geen baceler," pronounced 
at intervals with a rising inflection. Mrs. Farnborough, with cap awry, 
breath short, and temper growing momentarily shorter, stopped as Matilda 
appeared, and said with emphasis to her grandson : 

" You little monster, where have you put it? " 

"Cub-cub?" suggested Jack feverishly, ignoring Matilda, and beating 
with his fists on the jam-cupboard door. 

"Well, it's the only place left. Nobody's thought of looking there.'' 
So Hannah was called and scolded for allowing the door to stand open. 
The housekeeper protested the door hadrit been left open ; but that was 
a detail. The cupboard was inspected from the highest shelf a child 
could possibly reach down to the very threshold of the door, Jack lending 
an obliging hand as well as an adventurous finger now and then to the 
contents of the jars. 

The base Matilda, tired of waiting and soured by the day's experience, 
betrayed Jack's traffic in the jam and laid hold of him. But no, no, not 
yet will he submit to the petty tyranny of bedtime. He has tasted not 
jam alone, but great jollity and unwonted freedom. 

"No, no!" He struggled out of her arms, moved to longer speech 
than he had yet made within the memory of man. " Me mus' do fin' 
geen baceler." 

" But where, you little wretch ? " 

Jack shook himself free and darted clown the staircase. 

"He does know where it is all this time — the little demon ! " groaned 


The May Book 

his grandmother, and the servants shook their heads at his depravity, 
Matilda pursued and laid ungentle hands on him, he struggling valiantly 
and shouting the mystic formula he had found so potent for entertainment 
all the afternoon—" Fin' geen baceler, fin' geen baceler." His small face, 
in spite of arabesques of jam, glowed with purpose and with truth. Mrs. 
Farnborough rallied and stood erect. She would give him one more 

" Come then, Jack, for the last time, where is it ? " 

He shook himself free of Matilda half way down the stairs. 

"Come," repeated his exhausted grandmother, straightening her 
dishevelled head-gear with a shaking hand. "Where shall we look this 
last time ? " 

He stood a moment undecided, his eyes flashing with victory. 

"Where?" repeated the quavering old voice above him. Jack- 
looked up and then looked down. The wide world beckoned. Suddenly 
throwing back his head, he said firmly: "Go see pig!" and darted 
down stairs and out of the side door. 

Mrs. Farnborouo;h tottered back against the wall. Her grandson, 
had cast the Farnborouoh emeralds before swine ! 


While a detachment of servants inspected the pigsty, Jack was seized 
and brought in to bed. Twenty minutes later, according to custom he 
was led into his grandmother's room to say his prayers. Mrs. Farn- 
borough was prostrate on the sofa, breathing asthmatically. Jack, with, 
recovered serenity but somewhat tired too, looked more like a seraph 
than ever in his white nightgown with little feet bare and a halo of wild 
tossed hair. For the first time, in her life, his beauty and his infant piety 
roused no enthusiasm in his grandmother's breast. She half turned 
away as she saw him coming, and felt feebly in the black velvet reticule 
that never left her side, for a bottle of salts. She drew forth the emerald 
bracelet ! Far from being pleased at finding it safe in the place where 
she now remembered she had put it with her own hands, she was so 
enraged that, instead of listening to his prayers, she sat up suddenly and 
boxed the seraph's ears. Her agitated words shed no light on the un- 
provoked attack. 

Wounded and weeping, the poor little seraph went back to bed, 
hopelessly bewildered by the strange manners and customs of the rude 
tribe with which he had been obliged to cast in his lot. But the 
magnanimity of childhood rises up renewed each day — putting all un- 


" Geen Baceler " 

worthy lapses out of mind. Not so the grudge-bearing elder : he wakes 
brooding over wrongs, willing to waste to-day and even barter to-morrow 
so he may revenge himself on yesterday. 

Mrs. Farnborouo-h's unusual Sabbath exertions seemed to result in a 
slight illness. At all events she kept her bed, and Jack was not 
privileged to see her for some days. When he did, he was struck, as 
indeed a less perceptive person might have been, by the contrast 
between her spirited manners of Sunday and her present prostrate 
lassitude, the absence of enlivening trinkets about her person, and 
above all, the subdued nightcap in lieu of the gorgeous multi-coloured 

Jack stared at her with surprise and sympathy. What a falling off 
was here ! He showed her the new whip he had made — but she did not 
smile. He lifted up the black kitten and held it clawing and mewing 
quite near enough to be stroked, but the yellow hands lay languid and 
the dull eyes did not brighten. At last, "Take it away," said the feeble 
voice, and Matilda fancied it was not even the kitten Mrs. Farnborough 
meant. The nurse took the child's hand and drew him to one side. 

" Poor grandmamma isn't very well. You mustn't bother her," she 
whispered very low. " Run away and play." 

Jack clutched the kitten and looked back full of pity as he was drawn 
towards the door. 

"Poor! Poor!" he said sympathetically, and then breaking away 
from Matilda he ran back to the bedside with the inspired air of one who 
has thought of a sovereign remedy. 

" Come fin' geen baceler ! " he said, seizing the inert hand on the 

Jack was quite right in his surmise. Mention of that talisman did 
rouse his drooping grandmother, but not exactly as he had intended. 

Before the electric suddenness of Mrs. Farnborough's recovery of 
voice, gesture and facial expression, Jack dropped the black kitten and 
fled. But he did not know that he was that day turned out of Holy 
Orders, and that a bishopric had passed from him to his younger 


Hinc Illae Laehrymae 

Not hence, O Earth, the saddest tears we weep — 
That we are puny creatures of thy crust, 
And swift revert to our parental dust, 
Which breeds from e'en the ashes of our sleep ; 
Nor that the span of time 'tis ours to creep 
Above our graves is darkened by distrust 
And marred by sordid cares and pangs unjust ; 
Not from our pain the deepest tears upleap. 

But hence these tears — that through the mists of youth 

There gleams a golden world of miracle, 

Which, even when its glamour fades and ruth 

Has dispossessed our sense that all is well, 

Still stirs by lovely face or lofty truth 

Some dream of Beauty unpossessable. 



A Study 
By J. J. Shannon 


To a Girl Singing 

Sing to me — sirig — and sing again — 

My good, great-throated nightingale, 
Sing, as the sun sings through the rain, 

Sing, as the home-wind in the sail ! 

Sing me of life, and toil, and time — 

O bugle of dawn, O flute of rest, 
Sing, and once more, as in the prime, 

There shall be nothing but the best ! 

And sing me, at the last of love — 

Sing that old magic of the May, 
That makes the grey world laugh and move 

As lightly as our dream to-day ! 




CU £. -fiJjCl^ clJL cn^. o^~, £T- / 

PA o togra /> h ed 

F?-adeiIc and 

Bartie and his Friends 


Percy White 

Author of 

" Mr. Bailey-Martin," " The West End," 

ARTIE was a French poodle as black as midnight and 
so clever that his mistress, whose name was Alice, 
believed he was on the point of developing a soul. 

" He gives you his paw like a fairy prince," she said 
"and then his manners!" Every one admitted that 
these were perfection. His walk, especially when admirers were watching 
him, was a marvel of dainty, graceful vanity. " Je suis si beau ! " he 
seemed to say. For Bartie understood two languages, and when he was 
most pleased thought in French. 

"How beautifully you have trained him!" said the friends of his 

"Trained him!" exclaimed she. "Why, it's all his own won- 
derful genius. I never taught him a thing. He is a perfect 
gentleman. Yesterday I caught him before the glass trying to 
arrange his own moustaches, poor dear! and when he wants 
shaving he always comes and tells me. His sense of beauty is 
wonderful! If his bow is not the exact shade of red suited to his 
black curls he is quite uneasy until he gets the right one. He is as 
sensitive as a girl, and he loves me most because I am the only person 


Bartie and his Friends 

who does not laugh at him or discuss his endearing qualities before his 
sweet face." 

Certainly Alice and Bartie were charming friends. Ladies looked 
after them and exclaimed " How sweet ! " when they saw them walking 
together in the sunshine, she graceful and tall, he stepping behind her 
with the air of a cavalier following the lady of choice, respectfully, yet 
with the air of a conqueror. 

Supercilious critics who preferred noisy vulgar terriers said Bartie 
"minced." But this was ridiculous. His gait and deportment were the 
outward and visible form of his own peculiar semi-human grace. 

Bartie lived very happily in the company of Alice and her friends, 
mixing in no society of his own race, and looking down on the dogs he 
parsed in the street much as a marquis of the Court of Louis XIV. may 
have regarded the unkempt peasants outside his park palings, too proud 
to be supercilious. 

When vulgar dogs barked at him, Bartie pretended not to hear them, 
but approached nearer to his mistress's skirts. " That's because he is 
such a coward," said the careless observers. 

" It is because he is too great a gentleman to wrangle with common 
dogs in the public streets," replied Alice. " He is as brave as a lion, but 
of a nervous temperament." 

Meanwhile, whilst the human circle in which Bartie shone with so 
pleasing a social lustre studied him, he watched it. 

" I am learning all sorts of things," he thought, "and teaching them 
a lot too. They will end in understanding that it is the worst manners 
when I am present to leave me out of the conversation, a breach of eti- 
quette of which Alice alone is incapable." 

As Bartie's ideas expanded his appreciation of the subjects exciting 
the interest of Alice and her acquaintances also increased. He knew 
that it was vulgar as well as silly to be pro-Boer, and was delighted with 
the " red, white and blue " ribbons which he wore when Mafeking was 
relieved, although he fully realised that the colours were crude. On the 
foggy morning on which Lord Roberts entered London he barked three 
times in the Field- Marshal's honour in spite of the melancholy which had 
lately settled on his mind. 

About this time even Bartie's mistress did not fully fathom his 

It grew oddly enough. It chanced that Alice and her friends were 


The May Book 

discussing a book of love letters which Alice said " really were written 
by a woman very much in love." Her brother-in-law, however, a some- 
what conceited middle-aged man with strong views of his own on 
questions of literature and art, but whose senses were so blunt that he 
never knew whether Bartie was in the room or not, maintained that they 
were the work of a man and a mere piece of fiction which he could 
have written himself if he had wanted to. 

On hearing this view Alice turned to Bartie — who was gravely 
listening, with one paw over the other, "like a sweet graven image," as 
his mistress declared — and asked him whether he thought he could. 

" What is the good of asking him ? " said the pompous brother-in-law. 
" He doesn't know what love is." 

" Do you know what love is, Bartie darling ? " Alice inquired, patting 
his curly black head. 

Bartie blinked his bright eyes nervously, for he wasn't quite sure that 
the subject was nice. 

Now it chanced that on Christmas Day Alice had been given a 
beautiful polar bear's skin, white as driven snow. The white fur set off 
the poodle's beauty to perfection, but whether it was the opulent 
splendours of the bear skin, or the fact, of which I think he was 
conscious, that it displayed his own swarthy fascinations so admirably, 
at all events Bartie fell visibly under the spell " What on earth has 
happened to you and me ? " he whispered to the rug, but received no reply. 

"The fact is," said Alice to him one day, when she found him 
stretched on the fur, "the fact is, Bartie, you have fallen in love with my 

And the light rushed into Bartie's heart. " It must be love ! " he 
sighed. " What else could it be ? " 

Then he dropped his eyes from his mistress's to his own carefully 
tended feet, and fell into a troubled doze. 

But Bartie was only allowed in his mistress's room when he entered it 
with her tea in the morning to call her, and when she came up to look at 
herself in the glass just before lunch and said severely, " O Bartie, what 
are you doing here ? " he disappeared, quite crestfallen, out of the door. 

But he returned again and again to the rug, and Bartie's " infatuation 
for the Polar Bear " became a joke in the family. 

" It is terrible, this being in love," thought Bartie, whenever he had 
an opportunity of sleeping with the bear's head as a pillow. 


Bartie and his Friends 

" I wonder you are not frightened of his great white teeth," said 

"His teeth are in my heart," sighed Bartie. 

And so for a whole fortnight he confided his emotions to the snow- 
white hide which had once gleamed across the ice-packs in enchanted 
polar lights. 

" The soul of the slaughtered monster," said the brother-in-law, who 
prided himself on his imagination, " has entered into Bartie." 

" He is a lazy, self-indulgent dog," was the explanation which the 
owners of sporting terriers gave, " and has no more soul than an 

But even in the most refined the primitive instincts prevail. 

One day a friend came to spend the day with Alice, bringing with her 
a beautiful tawny poodle, exquisitely barbered and wearing the sweetest 
bow in her curls. 

" Bartie," said his mistress, " this is Miss Fadette fresh from Paris." 

" Bonjour, Mademoiselle," said Bartie, his heart beginning to beat 
strangely. " Are you a lady from gay Paris ? " 

" It is true, I am a Parisienne, Monsieur," she replied in the French 

And while the ladies lunched, Fadette and Bartie made friends and 
listened to the conversation, which to the extreme surprise of Fadette 
turned to the subject of Bartie's infatuation. 

" He's quite in love with the rug," said Alice, " and talks to it for 

Fadette looked at Bartie in wonder. " It seems to me that you have 
a very droll disposition, Monsieur," said she. 

" Not uncommon," replied Bartie, forgetting even his grammar in his 

" You must let me see your charming friend," said Fadette 

And after lunch, the most ridiculous dog in London presented 
Fadette to the big white skin. 

" C'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas — l'amour ! " exclaimed she, moved 
to an ecstasy of mirth. " Mes compliments, Monsieur ! " 

Her amusement made Bartie very sad. 

" You think I'm a fool ! " said he, hanging his moustaches between 
his paws, " but one must love something." 


The May Book 

" Alas ! yes," replied Fadette, dropping her eyes, " one must." 

"And you, too, have suffered? " said he, looking up. 

"All friends are not so faithful as that warm white fur," said Fadette 
sadly. " False hearts may beat under the glossiest coats." 

" Only a mean cur could treat you badly ! " said Bartie, frowning. 

Fadette sighed. " I am not," said she with ready tact, "referring to 
a personal experience." 

"Are you free, then?" asked Bartie, encouraged by the tender 
melancholy of her manner. " I mean, do you walk out with any one at 
present ? " 

"This is too sudden!" exclaimed Fadette modestly. "Give me 
time ! 

" You are lovely, Fadette. I was a fool about the cosy inanimate fur. 
Ah ! 'tis you I love." 

At this point the door opened and the ladies entered. 

"There!" exclaimed Alice, " I told you he had brought Fadette to 
see the rug ! " 

But Bartie's burning eyes were fixed on Fadette, who, with modest 
tenderness, returned his ardent gaze. 

" Will you," he murmured in a voice shaken with emotion, " be my 
betrothed ? " 

" You are my first and only love ! " said Fadette sentimentally. 
This was not quite true, but her emotion made her believe it for the 

" How oddly they are behaving ! " said their owners. 

Then they all four went for a walk in Kensington Gardens, Fadette 
and Bartie following so closely that their curls mingled. 

"Not quite so close, please," said Fadette. "You will disarrange 
my ribbons." 

" It doesn't matter, dear," said Bartie ; " aren't we engaged ? " 
" Bow ! wow ! whoh ! " replied she, making a coquettish frisk. 
"I knew she couldn't resist me ! " he reflected as he galloped after 



Sketch of. a Figure for a "Punch" Drawing 

By Bernard Partridge 




A Child's Whole Duty 

{From "A Child's Garden of Verse") 

Photographed by Deneulain 



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A child should al - ways say what's true, 


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speak when he is spok-en to, 

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A Child's Whole Duty 

dim. e rail. 


a tempo. 


as far 

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One More Unfortunate 


Arthur Morrison 

ILL HARNELL, lighterman, red and hairy, clumped 
home late up Old Gravel Lane. For such bad times as 
these on the river, Bill had had a lucky spell, and he 
bore its trophies with him. A new pair of water-boots is 
a thing of consideration, a matter of thirty-five shillings ; 
a piece of trade gear renewed on momentous days, years apart, when the 
fates are propitious and savings adequate ; days remembered with birth- 
days and wedding-days. This had been such a day ; more, it was a day 
of general rig-out, and Bill Harnell's blue serge coat, thick as a board, 
was new and stiff from the slop-shop, as also was his cap. Where light 
fell from a shop window a bulging pocket was observable in the new coat, 
with an exposed wrap of paper and a fishtail — signs of supper provided 
for. And so Bill Harnell, rolling at the shoulders, stiff and heavy below 
the knees, clumped home that evening up Old Gravel Lane, reflective. 

Truly he was a fortunate man, and not as so many in the swamp of 
humanity about him. There were some whom the price of his water- 
boots would keep in better raiment than their own for two years and 
more, and to whom his serge coat, when rotten and threadbare with time, 
would be a prize worth risking a life for ; many who at that moment 
might be debating whether or not more of life were worth the waiting 
for — for want of an unconsidered morsel of that supper that bulged his 

Was Bill Harnell clairvoyant? Two hundred yards ahead, where 


The May Book 

shadow was. Two seconds more of staring, and Bill followed in his wet 
socks. But the passage was empty. It led into an alleys the alley was 
empty also. Bill Harnell returned, and found a stranger or two. 

" Lor' !" said an immense woman who kept her hands under her apron. 
" Done 'im for 'is boots, pore bloke. Wot a shame ! " 
" Wet, mate ? " asked another, kindly. 

" It's jist the same ol' game," pursued the first. " They done it afore, 
many's a time. It's water-boots they tries for mostly. They ought t' 
'ave six munse, both on 'em — 'er an' 'er bloke. She won't never be 
drownded ; swims like anythink ! " 

" Wot's 'er name?" demanded Bill, as the state of the case grew 
apparent. " Oo are they, an' where do they live ? " 

The faces about him were instantly expressionless as a brick wall. 
" No — we dunno, mate," came the reply in far-away tones, " we dunno 
nothin' about 'em. You go 'ome 'fore you ketch cold." 

His teeth were chattering already. " An' if I'd 'a' let 'er drownd," he 
mumbled dismally, " I might 'a' got five bob for findin' the body !" And 
this was the truth. 


A Recollection 
By Dudley Hardy 

A Japanese Tree 

Frank Danby 

;ADY PLAINE-STALLWAY was as poor as the pro- 
verbial church mouse. She had all the disadvantages of 
long descent, aristocratic relations, and a position in 
society that was as convenient to her income as a tight 
boot on a hot day. It is not difficult therefore to picture 
her chronic condition of nerves and temper, and perhaps it would be 
flattery to describe her only as an irritable woman. She was that, but 
she was also a woman whom the long persistent social low fever had left 
drained of conscience and with an atrophied heart. 

Elaine was her only daughter. Anaemic, pale, and frightened, the 
child had grown up under the shadow of her mother's thwarted ambitions, 
and grown up, shadowed. But when she was seventeen Lady Plaine- 
Stallway began to look upon her as a possible asset, and discovered she 
had blue eyes, a good set of teeth, an abundance of fair hair, and was 
sufficiently attenuated to be made into a good figure. This was done, 
and, garbed in white, her hair charmingly dressed, she was exhibited at 
the first drawing-room of the season. Elaine was then described in the 
Daily Mail as "the beautiful daughter of Lady Plaine-Stallway." The 
description, to a certain extent justified, was added to the asset, which 
immediately began to take important proportions. 

" Elaine," said Lady Plaine-Stallway, coming into the schoolroom 
abruptly, two days after the presentation, " Gerald asked me last night 
whether you ever rode in the Park ; I told him you only discontinued 


A Japanese Tree 

doing so because I had been obliged to sell your horse. As Gerald is 
your first cousin 1 see no objection to accepting his offer to lend you one 
for the season ; he will keep it in his own stable. He is sending it round 
at eleven this morning. Mind you are dressed in time." 

She cast a glance of appraisement, mingled with a certain personal 
contempt, at her daughter. 

Elaine, very still, had been leaning out of the window, gazing into the 
Square ; the soft buds that she had watched for a week now, had burst in 
the night into sudden leaf ; there was a haze of green over all the Square, 
a sweet mystery that brought tears to her wistful blue eyes, set strangely 
deep in her childish face. She had started when her mother came into 
the room ; she always started at the sound of her voice ; and her pale face 
grew paler. 

" I am to ride ? " she said dully. 

" Try not to be such a fool," said her mother sharply. " Your cousin, 
Lord Hamlin, is going to take you riding. Don't pretend not to under- 
stand ; he was at the reception at your aunt's ; don't you remember that 
he talked to you ? " 

"Yes," dreamily, "he told me about some lilies; they were on the 
table, white, with yellow petals ; there are some like them in the gardens 
at Beaulieu." 

" Did you ever see a lily that wasn't white, idiot ! " 

She banged the door as she went out : the girl had always been a fool, 
her stupidity seemed to grow with her growth. She no longer had those 
extraordinary fits of excitability or naughtiness that had made her child- 
hood pass in a long procession of punishments, of solitude and bread and 
water. Lady Plaine-Stallway had been a strict disciplinarian. Elaine 
was no longer subject to those strange fits of excitability ; she was very 
obedient, but her stupidity seemed to increase. She put her fingers to her 
ears when her mother banged out of the room : she hated noise. In a 
minute she was hanging out of the window again, and the green stole o'er 
her, and soothed her perturbed spirit. Nursie, Elaine's old nurse, who 
was maid to her now, and dressmaker, and Heaven knows what besides, 
had, however, had her instructions. She roused the girl gently from 
her abstraction, put her into her riding things, had her in the hall in 

Gerald Hamlin had been attracted by the girl at the Drawing-room 
tea, there was no doubt about that. He hated his aunt — it was a way 

105 o 

The May Book 

they had in the family ; and his unknown cousin in her white dress 
with the long train, high feathers and Parisian pearls, looked so incon- 
gruous and forlorn and frightened that he found himself watching and 
pitying her. 

" What a devil of a time she must have had with that terrible woman," 
was the thought in his mind when he moved over to her side. The pity 
deepened as he talked to her, she seemed outside that crowd of bright- 
plumaged, chattering jays of women that filled the room with their shrill 
voices and restless flutterings. Elaine was like moonlight, pale, with a 
soft appeal. Beautiful eyes she raised to him, a little wandering, he could 
not see into their depths. Her lips too were tremulous, but sweet and 
curved ; she only answered him in monosyllables. 

" Frightened to death of that woman ; hardly dares to open her mouth, 
Rossetti mouth too, wonderful red. What a damned shame it is ; wonder 
what she'd look like if she had a good time ? " 

The offer of a horse was the outcome of his reflections. 

But she hardly spoke more when she was out with him that first 
morning ; a little colour stole into her cheek, the colour of the inside 
leaves of a white rose ; Gerald, looking at her, thought the cheek was as 
soft, as exquisite. She was very silent, very shy, but he had been " the 
best match of the season " for six or seven years, and had been conse- 
quently deluged with talk by aspiring Americans. Elderly girls who be- 
lieved that the Peerage married the Stage because ballet girls were more 
amusing than ddfoitantes, had wooed him with exasperating archness, and 
assumed a thousand stale coquetries for his benefit. The novelty of the 
position had palled, he was sick of being "entertained." Elaine's silence, 
her delicate porcelain beauty, appealed to him in some strange ways ; he 
wanted to see her dimple into smiles ; it made him ache when he rode 
away and left her at her mother's door. He thought there was an appeal 
in her eyes, that their wistful wandering questioned him, or his chivalry. 
In this particular way he had never been moved before. The image of 
her ; head a little drooping, slender figure, and always the blue eyes ; 
followed him into his chambers, made society vulgar, the theatres garish. 
He told himself constantly that she was only a child ; it was the formula 
with which he stopped himself feeling, and deliberately began to think. 
But the thrill was in the thought of her, nevertheless, and the thrill had 
only one meaning. Child though she was, incomprehensible as she was, 
silent as she had been, it meant — Desire. 


A Japanese Tree 

And why not ? She was his cousin, as well born, as well bred as he. 
He had a rent roll of thirty thousand a year, a colliery, and one or two 
other little things that made luxury possible. His aunt was terrible, 
horrible, but he could pension her off. She could live on the Continent, 
go into the country, accept the use of the little place in Scotland ; do a 
hundred things that his calmer thought might have assured him she would 
purposely refrain from doing. 

But once he had got so far as to think of what he should do to g-et rid 
of Lady Plaine-Stallway, he left off trying to drive away the pale face of 
his cousin or to stop the thrill when it came. It came when he looked at 
her at the theatre, at dinner parties. She was always quiet, shrinking by 
the side of her mother ; but there was a smile in her eyes now with which 
to welcome him, the smile that lingered about her tremulous mouth when 
they rode together in the sweet spring morning. 

One day when they rode up to the door, Lady Plaine-Stallway, just 
returned from her rigid constitutional, met them, asked Gerald if he would 
come in, join them at lunch. 

" Can I ? " he said doubtfully, looking at his riding things. " Shall I ? ' 
he asked softly, as he helped her to dismount. 

He was always so kind, so gentle to her ; he talked to her, and his 
voice was pleasant : they had ridden through the spring together, and 
when he was with her her mother's voice was not harsh nor discordant 
about her. 

" I should like you to be here all the time," she said quickly in^the 
same tone as his own, casting a hurried, half-frightened glance at her 
mother, in her uncompromising bugles and black kid gloves, clad in the 
Court mourning that was as intrusive as the caw of a rook. That 
frightened glance, that whispered answer, finished off Lord Hamlin. He 
was a saturnine-looking young man, his enemies said of him ; as cold as 
ice, according to the brides he had rejected, but he liked to see women 
happy, he had been used to seeing happy girls and women. What was 
the matter with this unhappy child? He felt his heart jump when he saw 
that glance of hers. He wanted to take her in his arms, shelter her, make 
her smile at him, and see all her pallor melt into dimples and rose petals. 
It was pity, or love, or both. He made his proposal abruptly five minutes 
afterwards, without premeditation, when he looked up from the paper he 
had taken up and saw his aunt, instead of Elaine. After all, he was 
bound to marry one day, it was his duty to marry. 

The May Book 

Any of the other girls he had known would have taken care to be 
down before their mother ; there was not a trace of artifice about Elaine ; 
she was absolutely guileless. 

" Elaine will be down in a few minutes. Did John show you where 
you could wash your hands ? This wretched little house has every possible 

"Aunt," he said, plunging into medias res; "I want you to give 
Elaine to me. She looks unhappy " 

" Did you expect her to be happy, or me either, on the wretched 
pittance your uncle left us ? " 

"If it's nothing but want of means " 

" What else should it be ? Do you think I beat her ? " 

He disregarded the query ; vaguely he thought his aunt was capable of 
that or any other atrocity. 

" I don't know whether she cares for me or not," he went on quietly. 
" I have had little or no talk with her. She is so shy, so quiet, so unlike 
other girls. I want you to give me the opportunity of getting to know 
her better ; I don't want to startle her." 

"She is not so easily startled ; apathetic rather. She takes after the 
Plaine-Stallways, not the Fitzgeralds." 

" Will you give me the opportunity of finding out for myself who she 
takes after ? " 

" You've had opportunities enough, Heaven knows, riding together 
morning after morning. No ! you can't go dangling about after her the 
whole season, every one questioning and wondering about your intentions, 
and all her chances spoilt : you wouldn't dare to suggest it if your uncle 
was alive, or if he'd left me in the position I ought to have been left in. 
I should like to hear you asking Belgravia whether you might dangle 
after Victoria for three months, to see if you liked her well enough to 
make her your wife. It makes me sick to see how differently people are 
considered when they have means." 

The Duke of Belgravia was the head of the family; Victoria his harsh 
featured daughter ; there was some truth in Lady Plaine-Stallway's bitter 
speech, the honesty in him recognised it. And then Elaine glided in, as 
she always came, more like a spirit than a girl, in her white summer 

" Come here, Elaine ; your cousin has just insulted me, through you; 
I shall stop these rides " 

1 08 

A Japanese Tree 

"Oh, no!" Her eyes filled with tears, she rushed to him, "Oh! 
no, don't let her." She took his hand, "Don't let her stop them, I 
want to ride with you." He detained her hand, held it, she was 
a child, but the imploring eyes, dismayed face, the ready tears made 
his heart throb. He must protect her. He drew her to him, it was 
under the basilisk eye of his aunt, but he was strong in his purpose, 
o-entle too. 

" Elaine, give yourself to me ; you shall ride, drive with me, be with 
me when you will. Be my wife, dear." His arm was round her, she put 
her head against his shoulder, nestled up to him. 

"I want to be with you," she said; "when you are with me it is 
always Spring, and there are only singing voices." A quaint and pretty 
fancy he thought. He turned to his aunt. 

"Then it is settled," he said quietly. "Elaine consents to be my 

" You've settled it yourselves, I've had nothing to do with it," she 
answered coldly, "and now you'd better come in to lunch. Perhaps, later 
on, you'll condescend to inform me how soon you can make it convenient 
for the wedding to take place, as I may wish to go abroad." With 
Elaine's small hand confidingly in his, the young man had no resentment 
in him. 

"The sooner the better," he answered gaily, for his heart was 
light. He liked the clino- of the little hand, the feel of the slight arm 
that he pressed as he led her into the dining-room. " The sooner the 

So it was arranged. Elaine nor Gerald had voice in the matter. 
Lady Plaine-Stallway dominated the lunch, the situation, sent the 
announcement to the papers, wrote letters to the family ; did everything 
but permit those opportunities for which Gerald's manly spirit longed. 
He never saw Elaine alone, he never found the occasion for drawing her 
out, for making her talk confidentially to him, for getting behind the veil 
of reserve and finding the soul of the girl whom he was making his life 
companion. For excuse there were always dressmakers, or the claims of 
relatives, conventional laws enforced by his aunt, and a succession of 
wedding gifts, wedding guests, wedding preparations that stood like a 
heavy curtain between him and the girl. 

To say that he was satisfied would be untrue. The oftener he saw 
Elaine the more her beauty enchanted him : it was ethereal, rare, and 


The May Book 

delicate ; there was a spirituality about it that fascinated him. She said 
quaint, wonderful things to him, strange things ; he could not always 
follow her. He gave her diamonds. At first she had seemed indifferent, 
had pushed them away ; but afterwards, a few days afterwards, she had 
confided in him. 

" I didn't care for them at first ; cold, hard things; I didn't want them. 
But I held them up, close to my eyes, and there were pictures in them, 
colours and strange lights and stories, stories about heaven, and pictures 
of the sky. I love them now. But the pearls are dull. I think the 
pearls are like me. Don't give me any more pearls, Gerald, they make 
me sad, they don't say anything, they just lie there all pale, and when I 
hold them to my eyes there is nothing — only pearls." 

Very rare were these talks ; never a chance when the man could take 
the girl in his arms, and with his lips on hers draw out the woman from 
the child's mouth. Did the woman sleep in her ? Was there a woman 
behind the girl that dreamed and talked of dreams ? But she clung to 
him, she told him she was only happy when he was there ; she cried 
sometimes when he left her. She caressed him with her eyes, her voice, 
nestled to his side when it was possible. He was not quite satisfied, he 
was not quite happy. She filled all his time and all his thoughts, but the 
formula had changed from "she is only a child" to "it will be all right 
when we are married : she has been bullied and frightened, she has not 
had a chance to develop ; she is so different from other girls." 

He was putting the town-house in order for her. Lady Plaine- 
Stallworthy chaperoned her when they selected curtains, carpets, new 
furniture. Elaine was listless when in her mother's presence, spoke 
little, and only when directly addressed : seemed to take no interest in 
the details of their home. This worried him ; he spoke to her once about 
it, gently, but in truth he was hurt by it. She hung her head. 

"It is quite true, I don't care." Her hand slid into his. " Are you 
angry with me Gerald ? Don't be angry ; I never care about the things that 
mother chooses. I don't want to live in London, and see people. I want 
to live in the country, and be only with you." 

She did not resent his reproaches more than this ; there was nothing 
that she resented : not the studied jibe of an unsuccessful rival, not the 
honeyed sneer of mothers with large families of unappropriated daughters, 
not, in words, her mother's harsh voice nor jarring methods. She moved 
among them all, amongst that fashionable superficial social set, as one 

A Japanese Tree 

completely abstracted. Her wondering blue eyes missed so much, yet 
saw so much, Gerald could not understand her always, "grew in truth a 
little irritable, uncomfortable, doubtful. He was going to have a sweet 
tempered wife —but — was he going to have a wife at all, or a gentle 
child with beautiful fancies, who loved him as a child loves, because he 
was kind to her ? 

The doubt grew tumultuous on one of those furnishing excursions. 
They were in a shop in Bond Street, looking for Japanese curios, for 
Fashion and Lady Plaine-Stallway had decreed that they were to have 
an oriental lounge in Grosvenor Square. Elaine had been quiet, dull, 
whilst they had inspected lacquer work, idols in ivory with grotesque 
heads, elaborately carved boxes and plaques with flowers and birds in 
mother-o'-pearl. Her eyes had wandered round the shop ; the sandal- 
wood, the scent made her head heavy. 

"You're looking at that tree, milady;" the dusky salesman had 
been watching her ; " that tree is nearly two hundred years old. Shall I 
tell miladi the story of that tree ? " He spoke in a low voice, with 
strange accent, his narrow eyes intent on hers. 

The tree was in the window, a quaint dwarf thing, with a thick and 
gnarled and misshapen trunk and spreading branches of green leaves. It 
was a tree that might have grown for hundred of years in some sunny 
English lawn, but here in its blue and oriental pot, on its black carved 
stand, it was incongruous by its very majesty, a thing of shadows and 
stories, deformed from its purpose, mystical. 

"It looks like a magnificent historical oak seen through the wrong end 
of a telescope," exclaimed Gerald. 

"Tell me about it," said Elaine, a vertigo upon her; the fantastic 
thing alive and haunting. " I almost see it, tell it me quickly." 

"Yes, milady, it was this way " 

" Elaine ! we have other places to go to •" Her eyes were fixed on 

the salesman, and she brushed her mother's remark aside. 
" Tell me the story." 

Gerald had never seen her quite like this before : she had forgotten 
to be frightened of her mother ; the tree was growing alive before her ; 
she seemed away from them, a hundred miles away from them ; the low 
voice droned on. 

"It was planted by one Kassim, a gardener, who fell in love with his 
master's daughter. Mano was sent away and married to a great 

1 1 1 

The May Book 

Prince, and then she died. On one of our Japanese flower festivals, when 
the spirits of the departed come to visit those they have left forlorn, 
she came back to Kassim, all in white, white kimono, white chrysanthe- 
mums in her hair, and whispered to him that he was to plant an oak for 
her, to water it with his blood, and when the oak had become a tree she 
would come to him on the Festival of the Dead and take him with 
her to the Japanese Paradise. You see the pinkness of the branches, 
milady, and near this bulbular root a patch of deeper pink ; that is the 
blood of Kassim. He tended this tree the whole year long for 
many and many a year, and always on the Feast of the Dead he waited 
for Mano to take him away with her, but always she said ' Not yet,' for 
the tree grew slowly, though Kassim tended it night and day. He 
watered it with his blood, his life flowed into it ; but only when he was an 
old man, quite an old man, shrivelled and bent and bowed, they found 
him one morning, dead, beside the tree, his pruning knife by his side, and 
a great gash in his throat from whence the blood, congealed now, had run 
over the roots of the still young tree. His body was covered with 
gashes, where each year he had poured out some of his life-blood for 
Mano's tree. Milady," he whispered, " Kassim was my ancestor. Take 
the tree, milady, take it for Mano's sake." 

Elaine's eyes had dilated, then narrowed, her face was very pale. 
Lady Plaine-Stallway seemed only anxious and impatient to get out of 
the shop. 

"A pack of rubbish!" she ejaculated, but nobody noticed it. Gerald 
was annoyed, uneasy, he could hardly say why. Elaine looked strangely, 
spoke even in an unnatural voice. 

"It is my tree, Gerard." 

"Certainly, of course." He told the tradesman to send the tree to 
Egerton Crescent ; he did not even stay to question the price : he wanted 
to get out of the atmosphere of sandal wood and idols, of branches of 
pink almond blossom, and oriental ornament. Elaine lingered behind a 
moment to whisper : 

"Tell Mano I will take care of it." The man bowed low before her. 
" Milady will be happy," he said. 

In the carriage she was silence personified, scarcely seeming to see or 
hear what was going on, her eyes vacant. 

For two or three days after that Gerald saw nothing of his betrothed ; 
he was told she was ill, over-fatigued, needed complete rest. They were 

I I 2 

A Japanese Tree 

within a week of the wedding, but his sense of uneasiness, of doubt, 
deepened rather than lessened. He caught hold of the old nurse one day 
when he saw her going upstairs, just as he had been told for the fifth time 
that Miss Plaine- Stall way was ill, too ill to see him. He knew the old 
woman ; she had been in the family as long as he could remember. 

" Here, Nanny, what's wrong with Miss Elaine : what's the matter 
with her? I want to know." 

" She's just wore out with the excitement, that's what she is," said the 
old woman tremulously. Her eyes were red-rimmed with watching or 
crying. " Don't you be nervous about her, Mr. Gerald, don't you. She'll 
be all right when she's married : when she gets away from her Ma." The 
old woman looked around her apprehensively, " She gets on her nerves,, 
that's what she do : she'll be all right when you get her away." 

That was what he hoped, but somehow his heart was heavy on his 
wedding day when he stood at the altar beside a very ghost of a bride 
whose fixed eyes hardly seemed to see him. Everything had been 
hurried ; afterwards it seemed to him there had been nothing but hurry 
from the day he had rushed into his unpremeditated proposal until the 
moment he found himself alone in the railway carriage with his newly 
made bride, and a big oriental pot containing a Japanese dwarf tree. 

" What the devil's that ? " he said to his man. The man touched his 
hat respectfully, though the tree was an immense weight, and there had 
already been some strange talk in the servants' hall. 

" It's her ladyship's tree, milord. Her ladyship wouldn't leave it 
behind. Her maid said she wouldn't travel without it ; she said I was to 
put it in her carriage with her." Gerald's face was not a bridegroom's 
face, as the train went off. Elaine touched his arm gently. 

" You are angry I brought Mano's tree ? " He responded quickly to 
the movement, had his arm about her. 

" Not angry, sweet, surprised. I hoped you would want nothing but 

There was more passion in the embrace than in any he had yet given 
her ; it seemed to him they were alone for the first time, though that 
grotesque thing in the corner made the solitude less than perfect. His 
lips sought hers, but there was no answer on them ; she shrank rather from 

" I don't like you when you are like that, when you are rough ; Gerald, 

113 p 

The May Book 

He was ashamed. Yet through that long morning hope was alive in his 
heart, though fear knocked loud for entrance. 

Sitting beside her now, gazing at her fairness, at her sweetness, her 
delicate cheek that illness had robbed of bloom, the blue eyes that illness 
had sunk deeper, his knocking" fear took words. 

" Is she only a child, not yet aroused to womanhood, or is there — can 
there be — " the sweat g'athered on his brow and his lips grew dry ; 
" can there be anything wrong, anything deficient, anything different to 
other girls — in her intellect ? No ; my aunt never could have been 
such a villain ; such infamy would be impossible." How weak he had 
been. Why had he not let his uneasiness find words before ? But, it was 
impossible, absurd, he was making an ass of himself. He looked at his 
bride, she turned to him. 

" Are you cross, Gerald ? " There were tears in her eyes, her lips were 

" The ways of a man with a maid, the ivays of a man with a maid," 
were the words that came to him. Perhaps everything" depended on 
him, everything. He strove hard for full control over himself, she was 
but a child in years. He was tender and gentle with her, tender and 
gentle only ; and soon she was smiling" at him, fully reassured. 

" Tell me about your illness, dear. I hated not seeing" you." At that 
she shrank a little. 

" Mamma told me never to speak about it." And the knock of Fear 
at his heart was loud ; she must have heard it, she put her hand in his. 
" But Nursie told me I was always to tell you everything". It began at 
the shop where I heard about Kassim and Mano. Mano and Kassim 
were both there," her voice grew dreamy, " Kassim called out ' Buy 
me, buy me,' and I asked you. Then I was in Japan a long time, in 
Tokio, beneath the shadow of the Fuji, and the cherry was in blossom, 
pink, the air was exquisite. I was there a long time ; Mano and Kassim 
walked in the garden, and I walked with them. Mano was the dauohter 
of a Daimyo ; did you know that ? She had almond eyes, and her hair was 
brought down in a peak on her forehead, just like the shape of Fuji in the 
mist. They were very unhappy, they could never be married. Mano 
was promised to the Marquis I to, and Kassim was only a gardener. I 
was there when the cherries were in blossom, and still in chrysanthemum 
time, when Mano said 'good-bye' to him, three days before she was to 
be married. I w as there " — here her voice sank to a whisper — " a long 

1 1 4 

A Japanese Tree 

time, many years, on the Festivals of the Dead, when the feasts were 
made for them, and the little ships launched ; and when Mano came 
back and whispered to Kassim, and he planted the tree, and said they 
would live together there, and always afterwards he cut himself that his 
life-blood might water it and then 

" When I came back I was in bed, I was very tired, I had been 
a long way. Mamma was there, very angry, like she used to be when I 
w as little, and Nursie was there, and told me to rest, but I was too tired, 
and Mamma frightened me. Gerald," she turned to him suddenly, "am I 
like other girls ? Do they go away like that ? " 

" You have sweet fancies, dearest ; " but the knock of Fear was louder 
than the throb of the engine that took them farther and farther on their 
honeymoon ; " you know you only fancy these things." His voice shook. 

"Sometimes I know it," she whispered. 

The Duke had lent them Beaulieu for a month. But it was only two 
days after his marriage when Gerald, set-faced, travel-stained, dashed up 
to Eoerton Crescent in a hansom, and demanded to see his aunt. The hall 
was full of luggage, he was told her ladyship was going abroad ; in an 
hour he would have been too late. He knew that, and she too, as they 
faced each other in the dismantled drawing-room. He was hao-oard, his 
eyes shocked, it was evident he had not slept. If the woman was nervous 
she concealed it well ; she stood there, as erect as ever ; opened the 

" Why are you in town ? How have you left F^laine ? Business 
brings you up, I suppose." 

His lips were very dry, and he found his voice with an effort. 

"Yes! it was business that brought me up, and I left Elaine, much as 
you might have expected I should leave her — just returning to conscious- 
ness after an epileptic fit, to which it seems she has been subject since 

Lady Plaine- Stall way's face grew a shade grey, but her lips never 
quivered as she gazed at him coldly. 

"I do not understand what you are telling me. Elaine never had an 
epileptic fit in her life. She was nervous and impressionable. If she 
was overstrained, or harshly treated, she was apt to faint away : many 
delicately nurtured girls faint easily. If Elaine is ill you must have been 
wanting in consideration, in kindliness. Why have you come to me ? " 

• '5 

The May Book 

The blood rose to his cheeks. 

" I believe you to be a thoroughly wicked woman. I believe you to 
have given Elaine to me knowing her to be unfit for any man's wife. I 
am in town on business : I am going to get this marriage annulled, I am 
going to have the whole matter threshed out." 

Her face changed at that, she made a step towards him, she opened 
her mouth as if to plead with him, but the look of disgust on his face, the 
backward movement, as if he would not have her near him, altered the 
phrase on her lips. 

" You would not do that, you would not disgrace your own name, your 
own family. Tell me exactly what has happened." 

" That infernal tree" — he covered his eyes with his hands a moment — 
"she would have it with us in the railway, afterwards it was taken up to 
the bedroom. She talked fancifully, as a child talks. ... I was very 
gentle with her ... In the morning, by an accident, I was not quite 
myself, I upset the stand on which the tree stood, the pot was smashed, 
she shrieked out. . . . My God ! you should have seen her face, her 
clenched hands, bitten lips, her horrible contortions, her squinting- 
eyes. ... I sent off at once for a doctor. He told me the disease was 
evidently of long standing. She was quieter last night when I left, but 
she didn't know me. Woman!" he turned fiercely upon her, "why 
did you do this thing, why did you blast my life ? " His rage overpowered 
him, the remembrance of the scenes he had gone through. His misery 
left her unmoved, her resolve was taken on the instant. 

" You are evidently a man of uncontrollable passions ; your present 
behaviour proves it. I will go to my unfortunate daughter : you had 
better return to Beaulieu with me. I have no doubt whatever that 
the regrettable incident of your breaking her tree, I suppose in some 
access of absurd jealousy, or ill-temper, has caused the attack of which 
you speak." 

But the attack proved more serious, more severe, more lasting in its 
effect than any other of those that had made Elaine's childhood hideous. 
Locking a delicate, sensitive child of seven in a dark room for six hours 
at a time had marked the onset of the first. Excitement of any sort, 
trouble with her lessons, any deviations from the simplest routine life had 
started others. But with the advent of Nannie, with Lady Plaine- 
Stallway's gradual recognition of the fact that Nature interposed its 
sternest commands between her drastic methods and her gentle daughter, 

1 16 

A Japanese Tree 

Elaine's health had improved. She was unlike other girls, that was 
all ; full of dreams and fancies, a very gentle creature. Her governesses 
had found her teachable, her tutors docile. There was nothing the matter 
with her intellect apparently until her unhappy marriage. 

It was all threshed out in Court on the unlucky day that Lord 
Hamlin took his wrongs before a tribune of his fellow countrymen. The 
learned Judge and the intelligent Jury heard from the counsel engaged 
by Lady Plaine-Stallway that her daughter, Lady Hamlin, had been 
very attached to her tree, that she had woven pretty imaginative fancies 
round it, that she had watered and tended it herself. She was very 
young, little more than a child in years, and Lady Plaine-Stallway had 
opposed the marriage, and only been forced to give her consent through 
the vehemence and insistence of Lord Hamlin. In the very earliest days 
of his honeymoon, Lord Hamlin had wantonly destroyed the cherished 
tree, the plaything of her childhood. Was it wonderful that the shock of 
his brutality had proved too much for her overstrained nerves ? The 
learned Counsel who appeared for the respondent in the celebrated nullity 
suit, waxed eloquent and pathetic over his theme, as he drew a vivid 
picture of the scene that resulted in the crash of china and the collapse 
of the delicate girl. One of the jury was moved to tears. The 
Judge, in his summing up, was very severe upon Lord Hamlin ; he told 
him if he had more sympathy, more consideration with his young wife, he 
might now be a happy married man. He was very strong on the infamy 
of his conduct in coming into Court, after having driven his wife into a 
condition of frenzy, to ask for a decree of nullity on the grounds that the 
lady was insane at the time of her marriage, and that he had been tricked 
into it. There was not a shadow of evidence to support his case, on 
the contrary, it had been proved that he had ridden morning after 
morning with his Jianc^e, had gone out with her almost daily into 
society. The suit ought never to have been brought. Then he very 
solemnly repeated an excerpt from the Marriage Service and dismissed 
the suit. 

Lady Plaine-Stallway enjoys in the very best society the income her 
son-in-law settled upon her ; she has much sympathy from her friends, 
and every one says "misfortune has sweetened her, she is much more 
amiable, less bitter since that frightful affair with her daughter and Lord 
Hamlin ; the young man always had a shocking temper, one has only 


The May Book 

to look at him to be sure of it, so dark, so forbidding, what a terrible 

scene that must have been. They do say " and the rest was 

whispered. Lady Plaine-Stallway was certainly improved in temper, 
but then it is much easier to be amiable on two thousand a year with no 
establishment and no daughter, than on eight hundred with both these 

Elaine has her jointure, a suite of rooms and two attendants, at 
Dr. Blythe's famous establishment. The Japanese tree has been happily 
replaced. She found it before her when she awoke from the cataleptic 
condition that followed her epileptic seizure. She is a very gentle 
creature when the fits are not on her : imagines herself now to be Mano 
and holds long conversations with the Kassim. She has forgotten she has 
ever been married, but she likes to see Gerald when he comes. He is 
very kind and gentle with her, fills her room with Japanese toys and 
trifles, and has even pleasure in adding to her happiness. There are 
long branches of pink almond blossom, and a whole forest of trees in her 

They tell him there is little in her disease to endanger life. Her intelli- 
gence, it is already sadly deteriorated since he first met her, will grow 
feebler and feebler, but it is more than probable that her physical condition 
will improve. 

Lord Hamlin has a profound contempt for the laws of his country, 
and the intelligence of its administrators. He keeps his opinion of Lady 
Plaine-Stallway to himself when he enjoys his domestic felicity at 
Dr. Blythe's establishment. 

1 1 8 



" // hen the Saharaman is in love he plays i/fion the pipe." 

— Sahara Saying 


The palms of Sidi-Amrane 

Stand delicately still. 
Beside the Bordj the Kabyle dogs 

Bark on their sandy hill : 
Girl-children, veiled in purple, play 

With boys in moonbeam-white — 
But Smain, amorous and alone, 

Pipes to the starry night. 

Around red fires the Nomads throng 

To eat their soup, fire-red ; 
The village Sheik and his five black sons 

Break solemnly their bread ; 
And Kaid Ali smokes his keef 

With an idol's grave delight — 
But Smain, amorous and alone, 

Pipes to the starry night. 


The tents are dark, the Spahi dreams 

His hobbled horse beside; 
The jackal laughs by the dead gazelle 

Where the salt lake stretches wide ; 
Above the Marabout's brown door 

The camel's head grins white — 
And Smain, amorous and alone, 

Pipes to the starry night. 

Each jingling Ouled-Nail 

Has laid her plumes away, 
Her great gold crown, and her small gold coins, 

And her Fatma-hands that pray ; 
The Sand-diviner drops the grains 

That tell the Future's flioht — 
But Smain, amorous and alone, 

Pipes to the starry night. 




The Fairy Cow 


Mrs. Clement Shorter 

NCE on a time, in a green place in Ireland, there dwelt a 
little colony of people. There were dark-eyed women 
and strong pleasant men, and it was a great place for 
babies — every cottage had at least six. But the number 
was not limited. Many a time if you walked down the 
principal street of the village (which was the only one) you would see 
in the doorways as many as twelve beautiful heads glittering with 
golden hair, and that was the only gold you would ever see in the 

Well, the village would not have been much different from any other 
in Ireland, only at one time a wonderful thing happened there. And 
that was in the famine year, when hunger and fever went like two red 
wolves through the land. 

Every morning the people woke in the little village they would 
say, "Well, things cannot be worse than they are now," but they always 
could. And so it was that every potato in the fields was blighted, and 
every cow in the barns died, except one, and that one had hard work to 
feed all the babies in the village, and the pride of it made her so vain 
that she got an attack of self-esteem and died, for it is a fatal disease to 
animals, though it never kills men. 

Now, when the last cow died, sorrow black and unlifting lay over the 
green place in Ireland. And the men grieved for the women, and the 
women wept for their babies, and the babies cried for themselves. 


The May Book 

Then an extraordinary thing happened, for as the women sat at their 
cottage door , with their hungry children round them, and their little 
weak babies held close to their thin breasts, there came walking down the 
village street the most wonderful cow in the world. Her horns were 
like polished ivory, and her satin skin flashed like red gold in the sun. 
She was clean, without a speck upon her. And as she walked the 
precious milk dropped from her full udder. Well, none of the women 
knew what to think when they saw her. But the little babies stretched 
out their hands to her and laughed, and their laughter was so sweet and 
loud that all the babies over the world laughed too, though, as they were 
the only ones who were able to hear it, and they could not speak, nobody 
ever knew what they were laughing at. 

Well, when the mothers saw that there was no keeper with the cow, 
that it came all alone so slowly, stopping before each cottage, they rushed 
for their mugs and jugs to get her milk. And when the cow saw the 
women come towards her with the laughing babies at their breasts, and 
all the little hungry children behind them, she stopped quite still and 
gazed upon them with her big loving eyes. And the women came to her 
and filled the mugs and jugs, giving them to the children to drink, til! 
they were satisfied. Then the men took the mugs and jugs, for the 
women grew weary milking, and the women drank till they were satisfied. 
When the women and children could no longer drink the men filled the 
mugs and jugs and drank till they could drink no more. All the time the 
cow stood still and never ceased to give her milk in plenty. Now when 
the people saw that the cow did not go dry with all they had taken from 
her, they guessed she was no common animal, but a fairy cow that had 
strayed from the fairy Rath that was just outside the village. And they 
were sure she would be gone from them next day. But though the 
night hid the cow the morning shone upon her, and there she was feeding 
in a field near the village church. And again the women came and drew 
the milk from her until they were satisfied, and the babies and men also, 
and yet the wonderful cow did not fail them, nor did her milk grow 

So the little village was saved from starvation when the famine passed 
over the land. As for the children, they grew fatter and healthier 
every day, till there was not a county in Ireland could beat them for size 
and beauty. Still the fairy cow stayed with them and did not refuse her 
milk, and would have been there still, no doubt, only for a cruel thing 

12 + 

The Fairy Cow 

that happened to offend her. Now you all know, in every city, or town, 
or village in the world there lives a vain creature who wants to show how 
much cleverer she is than anybody else (and I don't believe in our town 
it's either you or me). But, anyway, there was such a person in that 
little green place in Ireland. She was a quiet, humble woman as long as 
poverty was on her, but no sooner did she grow more comfortable, and 
have less work to do, than she grew vain. And one day when the women 
were all sitting together, talking of the fairy cow and the wonder of her 
milk that had never failed, one woman said there was nothing the cow 
could not fill. Even if the sea were to dry up, she could let fall her milk 
into its basin, yet she herself would not be without milk. Now when the 
vain woman heard all this she rose from her seat, and said in a loud voice, 
" I have that at home which she can never fill, though she could fill the 
basin of the sea ! " 

Now all the women laughed at her, but she told them to follow her 
and they would see. And they all rose and went after her, wondering 
what she would do. Well, the vain woman went into her cotta<je and 
brought out a pail, and she went into the field where the cow was grazing, 
with all the women following after her, and laughing. 

Well, when she reached the cow she sat herself down on a stone 
beside her, and began to milk with all her might. And as she milked 
the beautiful warm milk flowed through the pail on to the ground, for she 
had pierced the bottom full of holes. And the milk fell upon the grass 
so fast that soon a stream of it was running white through the field. 

<_> o 

When the other women saw what she had done, they laughed, and said 
they were beaten, and bid her leave off her milking. But the woman 
milked with all her might, till the stream became a river, flowing over the 
ground, and the cow was standing in the middle of it. Well, when she 
saw all the milk about her the fairy cow wondered, and turning round 
discovered the trick which had been played upon her. Then she lifted 
her head and gave three loud bellows, and, galloping up the village street 
towards the fairy Rath, she vanished and was seen no more. 

Now, as she was passing the little babies stretched their arms after 
her, and wept. And their wailing was so loud that all the babies in the 
world cried too. Though as no one else could hear it, and as they could 
not speak, nobody ever guessed what they had been crying for. 



Ah! Gentle Nightingale 


Photograph ed by the late Eugene Oudin 


Ah ! gen-tle night-in-gale, Hush thy poor song ; 
Night, with thy dusk-y veil, Steal o'er my heart ; 

N * 

Why pour so sad a tale 
Moon, with thyglan-ces pale, 


-=i— p- 

— p- 

-*\— P- 

* - » — « — 1— ^ — t 

-far— » « * *— _ - 

:--> -, 

pp Harp. 


r— i— p- 


»-- J- 



Night-winds a - long ? Ah! gen-tle night-in-gale, Hush thy poor song ; Why pour so 

Soft - en Love's smart ; Night, with thy dusk - y veil, Steal o'er my heart; Moon, with thy 


^1— P 

« — 

^1— P- 

JL - m - M. 



-^1— P- 

-sh- P- 

-=r— P- 


JUL ~ tr 


sad a tale, Why pour so sad a tale Night-winds a - long ? 
glan - ces pale, Moon, with thy glances pale, Soft - en Love's smart. 

The May Book 

Thy throb-bing plaint so clear 
Though night's sweet cheek be near, 

Fills my 
Each star's 



heart with fear, 
pen - sive tear ; 

d2= IZZ^ZS 



bird, thy note I hear, thy note I hear ; 
bird, thy note I hear, thy note I hear ; 


== ==£g^ E 

l I 


Lone - ly art thou ! and 
Lone - ly art thou ! and 

lis - ten and sigh ! 
lis - ten and sigh ! 

colla voce. 

? :z5: 





Letter to a Friend 

[Written when a Girl) 


Aspiring owl, I sometimes think I am, 

Without brain-power to carry me up higher ; 

A minus-talent, meagre, mental sham, 
Ambition-driven only to aspire. 

I wonder why on earth I've not more sense 
Than thus to be, as 'twere, ambition's tool, — 

He wins at best a sorry recompense 

Who labours hard to learn that he's a fool. 

How kind 'twould be of you, who never seem 
With self-doubt plagued, to look into my state, 

And, finding me the powerless victim of a dream, 
To tell me true you think me second-rate. 

I'd throw aside my pen — at least I'd never 
Write any more that's destined for the press ; 

And from that day my whole and sole endeavour 
Would be to shine for beauty and for dress. 

1 29 

An English Girl 
By Louise Jopling 

Words for a Drawing by 


Max Beerbohm 

HAT monster have we here? Who is he that sprawls 
thus, ventrirotund, against the huge oozing wine-skin ? 
Wide his nose, narrowly-slit his eyes, and with little 
teeth he smiles at us through a beard of bright russet — a 
beard soft as the russet coat of a squirrel, and sprouting 
in several tiers according to the several chins that ascend behind it from 
his chest. Nude he is but for a few dark twists of drapery. One dimpled 
foot is tucked under him, the other cocked before him. With a bifurcated 
fist (such is his hand) he pillows the bald dome of his head. He seems 
to be very happy, sprawling here in the pale twilight. The wine oozes 
from the wine-skin, but he, replete, takes no heed of it. On the ground 
before him are a few almond-blossoms, blown there by the wind. He is 
snuffing their fragrance, I think. 

Who is he? " He is Ho-Tei," you tell me ; "the god of increase, god 
of the corn-fields and rice-fields, and patron of all little children in Japan — 
a blend of Dionysus and Santa Claus." So? Then his look belies him. 
He is far too fat to care for humanity, too gross to be divine. I suspect 
he is but some self-centred sage, whom Hokusai beheld with his own eyes 
in a devious corner of Yedo. A hermit he is, surely ; one not more 
affable than Diogenes, yet wiser than he, being at peace with himself 


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and finding (as it were) the honest man without emerging from his own 
tub ; a complacent Diogenes ; a Diogenes who has put on flesh. 
Looking at him, one is reminded of that "over-swollen monster gourd" 
which to young Nevil Beauchamp and his Marquise, as they saw it from 
their river-boat, "hanging heavily down the bank on one greenish yellow 
cheek, in prolonged contemplation of its image in the mirror below," so 
sinisterly recalled M. le Marquis. But for us this "self-adored, gross 
bald Cupid " has no such symbolism, and we revel as whole-heartedly as 
he in his monstrous contours. " I am very beautiful," he seems to 
murmur. And we endorse the boast. At the same time, we transfer to 
Hokusai the credit which this glutton takes all to himself. It is Hokusai 
who made him beautiful, delineating his paunch in that one soft summary 
curve, and echoing it in the curve of the wine-skin that swells around 
him. Himself, as a living man, were too loathsome for words ; but here, 
thanks to Hokusai, he is not less admirable than Pheidias' Hermes, or 
the Discobolus himself. Yes ! Swathed in his abominable surplusage of 
bulk, he is as fair as any statue of astricted god or athlete that would suffer 
not at all by incarnation. . . . 

Presently, we forget again that he is indeed unreal. He seems 
alive to us, and somehow he is still beautiful. " It is a beauty," like that 
of Mona Lisa, " wrought out from within upon the flesh, the " adipose 
"deposit, little cell by cell, of strange thoughts and fantastic reveries and 
exquisite passions." It is the beauty of real fatness — that fatness which 
comes from a temperament, and, in its turn, reacts on the temperament 
until soul and body are one deep harmony of fat ; that fatness which gave 
us the geniality of Silenus, of the late Major O'Gorman ; which soothes all 
nerves in its owner, and creates the earthy, truistic wisdom of Sancho 
Panza, of Francisque Sarcey ; which makes a man selfish, because there is 
so much of him, and venerable because he seems to be a knoll of the very 
globe we live on, and lazy inasmuch as the form of government under 
which he lives is an absolute gastrocracy — the belly tyrannising over the 
members whom it used to serve, and wielding its power as unscrupulously 
as none but a promoted slave could use it. Such is the true fatness. It 
is not to be confounded with mere stoutness. Contrast with this Japanese 
sage that orgulous hidalgo who, in black velvet, defies modern Prussia 
from one of Velasquez's canvases in Berlin. Huge he is, and gross, and, 
so puffed his cheeks are that the light, cast up from below, strives vainly 
to creep over them to his eyes, like a tourist vainly striving to creep over 


Words for a Drawing by Hokusai 

a boulder on a mountain-side. Yet he is not of the hierarchy of true fat- 
ness. He bears his bulk proudly, and would sit well any charger that 
were strong enough to bear him, and, if such a steed were not in stables, 
would walk the distance swingingly. He is a man of action, a fighter, an 
insolent dominator of men and women. In fact, he is merely a stout man 
— uniform with Porthos, and Arthur Orton, and Sir John Falstaff ; spiced, 
like them, with charlatanism and braggadocio, and not the less a fine 
fellow for that. Indeed, such bulk as his and theirs is in the same kind as 
that bulk which, lesser in degree, is indispensable to greatness in practical 
affairs. No man, as Prince Bismarck declared, is to be trusted in state- 
craft until he can show a stomach. A lack of stomach betokens lack of 
mental solidity, of humanity, of capacity forgoing through with things; and 
these three qualities are essential to statesmanship. Poets and philosophers 
can afford to be thin — cannot, indeed, afford to be otherwise ; inasmuch 
as poetry and philosophy thrive but in the clouds aloft, and a stomach 
ballasts you to earth. Such ballast the statesman must have. Thin 
statesmen may destroy, but construct they cannot ; may achieve chaos, 
but cosmos never. Though Mephisto is always fat in Opera, none 
conceives the devil as fat. And this is because we believe him capable of 
mischief, but do not believe in an organised hell. It is an absolute rule 
that no man ever achieves positive creation except from the primary 
base of a stomach. You can reel off many instances to the contrary ? 
The more, the better. There are some rules of which the examples are 
outnumbered by the exceptions, and, since exceptions are accepted as 
proofs, . . . 

But why prate history, why evoke phantoms of the past, when 
we can gaze on this exquisitely concrete thing — this glad and simple 
creature of Hokusai ? Let us emulate his calm, enjoy his enjoyment as he 
sprawls before us — -pinguis, iners, placidus — in the pale twilight. Hush! 
Let us not seek to identify him as god or mortal, nor guess his character 
from his form. Rather, let us take him as he is : for all time the perfect 
type of fatness. Lovely and excessive monster ! Monster immensurate ! 
What belt could inclip him ? What scales would not perish in the 
attempt to register his weight ? What blade were long enough to prick 
the heart of him ? 


Centributed by Sir Henry Irving 

"Hayston of Bucklaw" 
By Seymour Lucas 

" Tout comprendre 
c'est tout pardonner " 


Mrs. Thomas Henry Huxley 

To all the gossip that I hear 

I'll give no faith ; to what I see 
But only half, for it is clear, 
All that led up is dark to me. 

Learn we the larger life to live, 
To comprehend is to forgive. 

Bethink you, ours but knowledge scant 
Of all the fettering, tightening chain 
Of circumstance — not virtuous rant, 
But pity fall in gentle rain. 

Learn we the larger life to live, 
To comprehend is to forgive. 

But truth is truth— one pure white light ! 

Ah ! split the beam, how many hues, 
In rainbows dipped, burst on the sight, 
Yet into one white beam they fuse. 

Learn we the larger life to live, 
To comprehend is to forgive. 

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One truth is made of many ; so, 

Did we the wondrous prism hold 
Omniscience, thoughts divine would flow, 
And love our fellow men enfold. 

Learn we the larger life to live, 
To comprehend is to forgive. 




Dante as a Love Poet 

A Paper read before the Dante 


Kassandra Vivaria 

OMEWHERE about the year 1306 there died, in the little 
Umbrian town of Todi, an altogether charming, if little- 
known, poet of the early Franciscan school : Jacopo de 
Benedetti, or Fra Jacopone da Todi. Among other 
delicate and sagacious things, the lowly Brother of the 
Third Order of Saint Francis wrote the two following lines : 

Dov' b piana la lettera 
Non fare oscura glosa. 

" Let not your comment be obscure where the letter is plain." I can 
see the whole of the primitive Franciscan's dislike of complicated forms, 
ecclesiastical sophistry, and unchristlike dialectics in these short lines ; and 
they struck me as a very safe principle to go upon when I was sifting 
materials for this paper. 

In a rapid recapitulation of Dante's qualities and idiosyncrasies as a 
love-poet, that is, as a poet who has both conceived and felt love in a 
personal way, and has expressed it with the ring of sincerity through a 
poetic medium, it is of little importance to consider other than, broadly 
speaking, three things : the matter, the form, and the causes of this portion 


Dante as a Love Poet 

of his work. By these I mean his unconscious attitude towards the feel- 
ing he expresses with regard to the generally accepted notion of it, and 
with regard to the feeling as conceived by others ; the beauty and 
adequacy of his expression of this feeling, and the several influences, from 
within, from without, anterior and contemporary, that have helped to bring 
about both the attitude of heart and the attitude of intellect that have 
made it poetry. 

When we begin attempting to find our way through the Vita Nuova 
and the Canzoniere, remembering the stern shadowy man of visions, 
divided between those prejudices of his time which he still shared and 
those which had dropped away from him ; thrown back into the solitude of 
his own thoughts, memories, and regrets by the injustice of enemies and 
his distrust of most among those who called themselves his friends ; 
remembering the heart-sore wanderer bitten by melancholy that life and 
his fellow beings had made of Dante in after-life, the first thing which 
becomes apparent is not only the deep difference between the man as we 
see him and the man as he might have been, but the fact that a great 
deal of all this is traceable, by his own revelation, to the sorrowful love of 
his youth. There can be but little sincerity and still less inspiration for 
good or for evil in a passion that has come and gone in us like a slack 
wind blowing from a colourless land neither barren nor fruitful, bringing 
nothing and leaving nothing behind. Thus, the changes in the features 
of Dante's personality, carved there as by a merciless chisel, prove the 
sincerity and the inspiring power of Dante's love and, indeed, the very 
existence of Beatrice Portinari — once strenuously denied and mistaken for 
the peg of an allegory by some, who, among other reasons, imagined they 
were thereby giving a greater impression of loftiness concerning the mind, 
and greater lustre to the halo, of the Divine Poet. God forgive them for 
their misunderstanding, for their misleading attempt at finding greater 
purity and nobility elsewhere than in greater and intenser humanity. 

What I have just said, of course, brings us to the conclusion that one 
of the reasons why Dante's love-poetry is on a plane altogether different 
from, and superior to, that of his contemporaries must surely be that 
his love meant more to him than theirs did to them ; that it was always, 
down to its slightest detail of expression, a living, I mean a human, thing 
that imposed itself on his Muse and directed it, and was never a graceful 
necessity of his poetic genius. The love-poetry of so many among his 
contemporaries and his successors is often a vast and luxuriant growth 



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that has sprung from a very small germ. If we read the verses written 
for Giovanna, Selvaggia, and Fiammetta, for instance, by Cavalcanti, 
Cino da Piatoja, and Boccaccio, they will strike us inevitably as inspired 
rather by the desire of writing a love-poem round a graceful thought 
or the passing of a not very deep emotion, than by the impulse of an 
unconquerable passion for one woman which had long clamoured for 
expression. Accident quite as much as personal devotion has placed 
those particular poems at the feet of those particular women. We find 
that love-poetry was often the product of a turn of mind in the men that 
wrote it, of the habits of the polite society of the time. It was much less 
often the product of any deep impression left on the heart and life of a 
poet by the woman who was to him the chosen and the only one. In 
those ringing, fighting, stirring, unsettled, gruesome yet light-hearted 
times, when the certainty of heaven for the sinless, and easy repentance 
for the sinful, made the conscience of man a pleasanter and a safer thing 
to live with than it was in the later days of settled doubt. In the times 
when the present was wild and exciting, and the deep things of the 
hereafter better known and more familiar, owing to the revelations of the 
saints, than the affairs of one's relations in the next townships — it was as 
much the generally expected thing for poets to write love-songs as it is, in 
our own day, for the ordinary minor poet to sing a calumny of life, and 
entertain us with puzzling metrical descriptions of his unimportant 
despairs. Although both may be very charming as verse, which is 
perhaps, after all, the only thing that is required of them, yet the love- 
poems of Dante's period stand to love in exactly the same relation as the 
discontented verses of the young — sometimes quite happy and athletic — 
modern poet of the second order stand to the ethics of life. 

Compare the opening lines of the following Ballata of Guido 
Cavalcanti's in the exquisite translation of Dante Rossetti : 

Within a copse I met a shepherd-maid, 
More fair, I said, than any star to see. 
She came with waving tresses pale and bright, 

With rosy cheek, and loving eyes of flame, 
Guiding the lambs beneath her wand aright. 

Her naked feet still had the dews on them, 

As, singing like a lover, so she came : 
Joyful, and fashioned for all ecstasy, 

with the grave refinement of a feeling that has sunk into the depths of a 
deep nature, in the XHIth Sonnet of the Vita Nnova : 


Dante as a Love Poet 

My lady carries love within her eyes ; 

All that she looks on is made pleasanter ; 
Upon her path men turn to gaze at her ; 
He whom she greeteth feels his heart to rise, 
And droops his troubled visage, full of sighs, 
And of his evil heart is then aware ; 
Hate loves, and pride becomes a worshipper. 
O women, help to praise her in somewise. 
Humbleness, and the hope that hopeth well, 
By speech of hers into the mind are brought, 
And who beholds is blessed oftenwhiles. 
The look she hath when she a little smiles 
Cannot be said, nor holden in the thought, 
'Tis such a new and gracious miracle. 

Then compare this " Canzone " of Cino da Pistoja on the death of 
Selvao-oia Verq-iolesi : 

Ay me, alas ! the beautiful bright hair 
That shed reflected gold 

O'er the green growths on either side the way : 
Ay me ! the lovely look, open and fair, 
Which my heart's core doth hold 

With all else of that best-remembered day ; 

Ay me ! the face made gay 
With joy that Love confers ; 
Ay me ! that smile of hers 

Where whiteness as of snow was visible 
Among the roses at all seasons red ! 
Ay me ! and was this well, 
O Death ! to let me live when she is dead ? 

with the Xth Sonnet of the Vita Nuova : 

, The thoughts are broken in my memory, 

Thou lovely Joy j whene'er I see thy face ; 
When thou art near me, Love fills up the space, 
Often repeating, " If death irk thee, fly." 
My face shows my heart s colour, verily, 
Which fainting, seeks for any leaning-place ; 
Till, in the drunken terror of disgrace, 
The very stones seem to be shrieking, "Die!" 
It were a grievous sin, if one should not 
Strive then to comfort my bewildered mind 
(Though merely with a simple pitying) 
For the great anguish which thy scorn has wrought 
In the dead sight o' the eyes grown nearly blind, 
Which look for death as for a blessed thing. 

i + i 

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The little lamp of Dante's contemporaries owes the little gleam we 
still catch of it in the enshrouding darkness of the Middle Ages almost 
exclusively to their poetic instinct — which is a very great thing. But the 
steady light of the Vita Nuova owes its enduring quality both to the 
instinct of its poet and to the qualities of the original fire that kindled it, 
which is a still greater thing. I think that if there had been no such 
women as Giovanna, Selvaggia, Fiammetta, or even Laura, we should 
still have the few surviving works of the poets who sang for them, 
inscribed to some other woman — to any fair woman. But I should very 
much doubt whether, had there been no fair daughter of Folco Portinari, 
there would ever have been a Vita Nuova. 

At the risk of repeating myself, or over-emphasising what must be 
quite apparent by now, I should like to lay especial stress on this fact, 
that the beauty of Dante's love-poetry rests quite as much on the beauty 
of his soul, on the beauty of the inspiring love of that soul, as on the 
delicacy of his expression or the purity of his form. That which we call 
the soul of a human being can only be beautiful with the beauty of those 
things which give it joy or pain ; and it is easy to see at a glance, by 
inference and by the evidence of his own work, the morally aesthetic 
value of this love of Dante's youth, that never left him, that followed, 
tormented, upheld, reproached and inspired him, rising from one plane to 
the other until he had made it worthy of its own apotheosis in the 
Paradiso, guided by the determination and the "new perception" that 
closes the tale, the autopsychology — as Rossetti calls it — of that first phase 
of his love. 

Beyond the sphere which spreads to widest space 
Now soars the sigh that my heart sends above ; 
A new perception born of grieving Love 

Guideth it upward the untrodden ways. 

He himself has told us the birth of the maturer work that was to 
enshrine her memory : 

"After writing this sonnet, it was given unto me to behold a very 
wonderful vision : wherein I saw things which determined me that I 
would say nothing further of this most blessed one, until such time as 
I could discourse more worthily concerning her. And to this end I 
labour all I can ; as she well knoweth. Wherefore if it be His pleasure 
through whom is the life of all things, that my life continue with me a 
few years, it is my hope that 1 shall yet write concerning her what hath 


Dante as a Love Poet 

not before been written of any woman. After the which, may it seem 
good unto Him who is the Master of Grace, that my spirit should go 
hence to behold the glory of its lady : to wit, of that blessed Beatrice 
who now gazeth continually on His countenance, ' Who is blessed 
throughout all a^es.' " 

Among the many characteristics of Dante's great love for Beatrice 
there are some in such striking contrast with the usual passions that most 
poets have exposed to our contemplation in unforgettable verse, qualities, 
too, in such contrast with the hollow spirit of exaggeration, rampant even 
then in his native country, and perhaps born of the insincerity to which I 
have alluded, that the spirit of it comes to those who are gasping for fresh 
air, stifled by artificialities that have been forced upon them, until they can 
really feel it no longer like a breeze from a wood full of violets. If I were 
asked what I thought these especial qualities consisted of, I should say 
that Dante's effusions are more humble and yet more courageous, more 
restrained and yet more tender, than almost any other poetic utterance at 
all glowing with the flame of life that has dealt with love : love which he 
has aptly called, ' the fountain of fair speech.' 

There is no trace of assurance in all his love-poems ; he asks nothing" 
in return for his great gift ; the homage of his verse seems the least that 
he can offer to his gentle lady ; he stretches out no greedy left hand for 
the price of the poem he is penning with his right, in which he bequeathes 
to her an unsoiled immortality. The fact of loving is the only joy to 
which he has any right ; he will neither molest, tempt, nor disturb, but he 
bids his song; 

Say to her also : " Lady, his poor heart 
Is so confirmed in faith 

That all his thoughts are but of serving thee : 
'Twas early thine, and could not swerve apart." 
Then, if she wavereth, 

Bid her ask Love, who knows if these things be. 
And in the end, beg of her modestly 
To pardon so much boldness : saying too — 
"If thou declare his death to be thy due, 
The thing shall come to pass, as doth behove." 

And if the love of Dante has all the lowliness of religious worship, it 
also has all the courage, the powerful resistance, giving it nerve for the 
accomplishment of Life's daily actions that a meaner affection might not 
have had. While he sighs for the love of the Beatrice whom he has lost, 


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and later, mourns her death, while he asks, "All ye that pass along Life's 
trodden way " to " pause awhile and say if there be any grief like unto 
mine," nevertheless, even in the one-sidedness of his earliest youth, of 
which the Vita Nuova was the first product, not only does his nature 
bear no trace of devastation but he does not even pretend that his sorrow 
will ultimately crush him, and he constantly rises from each poem with a 
renewed sense of something further to accomplish. 

Then again, when we think of the nauseating exaggerations, the 
hyperbolic terms, the overweening" luxuriousness, so often called wealth of 
fancy, that weaken the love-effusions of so many later poets, how can 
we sufficiently admire, how can we cultivate sufficient respect for, the 
quiet dignity and steady truthfulness that cling to Dante's tenderest 
words ? If we lay aside beauty of poetic imagery and art of expression, 
and consider only delicacy of feeling, and that kind of contained ardour 
that weaves a web of adoration round the beloved one, what can surpass 
the sonnet, one of Dante's best known sketches of Beatrice and the effect 
of her presence upon him, beginning : 

So goodly and so seemly doth appear 

My Lady, when she doth a greeting bring, 

That tongue is stayed, silent and quivering, 
And eye adventures not to look on her. 

And, if we consider that the gift of happy words, of cadence, of 
instinctive choice and apt rejection, are Dante's in a supreme degree, 
especially in his minor works, shall we be accused of partiality, if we 
place him among the very first of those very few who have both known 
what love was and could write of it in such a manner as to unite style and 
form to their expression of a passion that had in them no undue emphasis 
and yet was not stilted, that poured through them into their lines a wealth 
of tenderness and yet was not grotesque. Dante has known the wisdom 
of restraint, perhaps because of the sincerity of his feeling that made it 
sacred, and, because of that wisdom and that restraint, he has done what 
the thing we call a sense of humour ought to have suggested to so many 
love-poets, less great than himself : he has done what his own words 
point out to us : 

And thus it is that I, being like as one 

Who is ashamed and hides his poverty, 

Without seem full of glee, 
And let my heart within travail and moan. 

1 44 

Dante as a Love Poet 

The last thing I am going to say about the sentiment that runs like a 
golden connecting thread through the love poems of Dante, is that his 
inimitable quality of tenderness is perhaps the one that comes nearer home 
to the more self-centred spirits of our day, the one that sets his work apart 
more than any other from the fiercely egotistical character that the neces- 
sary solitude of mind and the ever-increasing individualistic tendency of 
modern times have imparted to latter-day love poetry. I know of nothing 
that quite rivals the gentle sympathy, the unquestioning and spontaneous 
dividing of another's grief, of that passage where Dante describes himself 
receiving the news of the death of Beatrice Portinari's father and his grief 
at her grief. 

" Not many days after this (it being the will of the Most High God, 
who also from Himself put not away death), the father of wonderful 
Beatrice, going out of this life, passed certainly into glory. Thereby it 
happened, as of very sooth it might not be otherwise, that this lady was 
made full of the bitterness of grief ; seeing that such a parting is very 
grievous unto those friends who are left, and that no other friendship is 
like to that between a good parent and a good child ; and furthermore 
considering that this lady was good in the supreme degree, and her father 
(as by many it hath been truly averred) of exceeding goodness. And 
because it is the usage of that city that men meet with men in such a 
grief, and women with women, certain ladies of her companionship 
gathered themselves unto Beatrice, where she kept alone in her weeping ; 
and as they passed in and out, I could hear them speak concerning her, 
how she wept. At length two of them went by me, who said : ' Certainly 
she grieveth in such sort that one might die for pity, beholding her.' 
Then, feeling the tears upon my face, I put up my hands to hide them ; 
and had it not been that I hoped to hear more concerning her (seeing 
that where I sat, her friends passed continually in and out), I should 
assuredly have gone thence to be alone, when I felt the tears 
come. But as I still sat in that place, certain ladies again passed 
near me, who were saying among themslves : ' Which of us shall be 
joyful any more, who have listened to this lady in her piteous sorrow ? ' 
And there were others who said as they went by me : 4 He that sitteth 
here could not weep more if he had beheld her as we have beheld her ; ' 
and again ! ' He is so altered that he seemeth not as himself.' And still 
as the ladies passed to and fro, I could hear them speak after this fashion 
of her and of me." 

145 T 

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The literature of modern love might well deserve at times, when it is 
not the literature of suspicion, of everything that is trenchant and of 
everything that is unjust, to be called the literature of hatred. With 
Heine, with Baudelaire, any of whose poems chosen at haphazard would 
exemplify what I mean, with a dozen others who echo the weary modern 
heart-note with the same acoustic fidelity, most of us are well acquainted. 
There are others in this century, even in this country, magnificent poets, 
whose view of love, at least the view which they turn to the public, would 
make the grave, simple Beatrice and the serene, faithful Dante shudder in 
their graves with horror. It is not the poets who are to blame, but the 
heavy, labyrinthian heart made of the essence of centuries that the 
wicked fairy gave us as a christening gift. I have in mind one or two 
fragments which, from having been written in the very land of Dante,, 
seem all the more illustrative of the latter's gentle conception of love. 
The following are exceedingly rough and unmetrical translations : 

Now, only now I rise from my cowardly oblivion, 

Bursting my bonds at last. 
I rise ashamed of myself and of my love ; 

I rise and scorn you. 

Now you may say, it such be your sweet will, 

That I have wept for you alone ; 
By you alone conquered, bowed down and humbled, 
I for my part lashing you in my undaunted song 

Will tell how vile you are. 
* * * * 

When you shall sleep forgotten 

Under the fat moist earth, 
And you will have God's cross planted 

Erect upon your coffin. 

When your cheeks shall fall melted 

Between your shaking teeth, 
And the worms shall crawl 

Into your empty sockets. 

To you, that sleep which is peace for all others 

Shall only be a torture, 
And then remorse shall come, cold and tenacious, 

And it shall bite your brain. 

And when you shall say, " Why do you bite, 

Pouring poison in the wound?" 
I shall answer, " Have you forgotten 

The beauty of your hair?" 


Dante as a Love Poet 

And my verses shall be the pillory 
Where you shall sit condemned 

To undying ignominy, 
To pains that will make you envy 

The pains of hell. 

And my revenge shall plant your shame 
Like a seal between your eyes. 

The above are extracts from a volume of love-poems of a by-no-means 
unrepresentative author of modern Italy. How far indeed has life led the 
children of Dante from the broad simple harmony of lines like 

My lady carries love within her eyes ; 
All that she looks on is made pleasanter. 

If, then, the poetry of many who have come since Dante has been turned, 
perhaps, by the ever-increasing difficulties of the struggle for individual 
existence, by an inevitable hankering after an often misunderstood sense 
of individual liberty and grossly misunderstood sense of individual person- 
ality, into the poetry of bitter resentment, obscure antagonism, often of 
hatred, Dante's love-poetry breathes pre-eminently that spirit of love 
which is called Charity. And this brings me to the necessity of saying a few 
words more in order to trace one of the principal influences that determined 
Dante's attitude of heart and mind. And I am the more tempted to dwell 
on the subject from the fact of its being connected with a period, a 
movement, and a luminous train of associations that are full of indefinable 

Dante was born in the full glow of that fire of charity re-lit in the 
lukewarm Church, and spread like wild-fire through the Catholic world, 
after the manner of all those sudden growths that satisfy a hungry need, 
by St. Francis, and tended like a delicate flower full of fragrance and 
honey, by St. Clare of Assisi. The glamour of the early Franciscan 
Chronicles, so near to Nature and to truth, with their overpowering gift of 
charity and of poetry and their love of the "great Dame Poverty;" the 
gaunt burning figure of St. Francis himself, still within the memory of all 
and yet already legendary, covered the whole of Italy like a veil and 
permeated it like an atmosphere. No pagan conception of Beauty or of 
Love could have appealed to Dante ; and yet the great inquiring soul of 
that seer of visions could never have been satisfied by the superficial, if 
graceful forms of chivalrous love that he saw around him ; still less could 


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he have been attracted by the brutality and triumph of mere strength that 
must often have been the concrete fact into which all those dainty 
phrases and chivalrous graces resolved themselves. We realise what the 
influence of the first Franciscans, still alive with the zeal of their father's 
great spirituality, fed on the blood that flowed from his Heaven-sent 
stigmata, still in the poetic springtide of their simplicity, must have been 
over the quiet, haughty, sensitive, precocious child, already burning at a 
very early age with a spark of the same fire that dwelt in the strange 
heart of the Saint who sang the Cantico a Frate Sole, that lyric of almost 
Hebrew beauty called the Canticle of Created Things. Most touchingly 
is that great conflagration of Charity caused by one single heart told in 
the Little Flowers : 

" St. Clare had an extreme desire of once partaking of food with 
St. Francis, and very often she begged him to allow her, but never would 
he grant her this consolation. For this reason, his companions, knowing 
the desire of St. Clare, thus spoke to Francis : ' Father, it seems to us 
that this sternness is not according to Divine Charity. Why will you not 
satisfy Sister Clare, who is a holy Virgin and so dear to God, in so small a 
thing as sharing a repast with you, particularly if you consider that it was 
because of your preaching that she abandoned her wealth and the pomp of 
the world? In all truth, if even she asked of you a greater grace than 
this, you should grant it to your spiritual daughter.' Then St. Francis 
answered: 'Do you think then that I should satisfy her?' His com- 
panions answered : " Yes, Father ; it is a just thing that you should grant 
her this grace and consolation.' Then St. Francis said : 'If such is your 
advice, it is mine also ; but in order that she may be still more consoled, 
the repast must be spread in Santa Maria degii Angioli, because it is 
already a long time that she has been cloistered at San Damiano. It will 
be a great joy to her to see Santa Maria degli Angioli where she was 
veiled and made the bride of Jesus Christ, and we will eat here together 
in the name of God.' 

"The appointed day having come, St. Clare left the convent with one 
companion, followed by the companions of St. Francis, and came to Santa 
Maria degli Angioli. She devoutly saluted the Virgin Mary before the 
altar where her hair had been shorn off and the veil had been given her. 
Then they took her to visit the convent till it should be time for their 
repast, and during that time St. Francis caused the food to be spread on 
the naked earth according to his custom. 

H 8 

Dante as a Love Poet 

" And the hour for the partaking of food having come, they sat down 
together, St. Francis and St. Clare and one of the companions of 
St. Francis with a companion of St. Clare ; then all the other companions 
of St. Francis drew near humbly. 

"And it came to pass that at the first course St. Francis began 
speaking of God in a manner so suave, so sublime, and so marvellous, that 
Divine Grace poured down upon them in abundance, and they were all 
ravished in God. 

" And while they were thus ravished, their hands and eyes lifted up to 
heaven, the people of Assisi and of Bettona and all the neighbouring 
people saw that Santa Maria degli Angioli was on fire, and likewise the 
convent and the woods that were then near the convent, and it seemed 
to them that a great conflagration had seized the church, the convent 
and the woods together, so that the men of Assisi ran in that direction in 
great haste to put out the fire, thinking that all was burning. But when 
they arrived at the convent, they found that nothing was burning. They 
entered, and they saw St. Francis with St. Clare and all their company 
ravished in the contemplation of God as they sat round their humble 
table. At that sight they understood without further hesitating that it 
was a Divine and not a material fire which God had miraculously caused 
to appear, so as to show forth and signify the fire of Divine Love that 
inflamed the souls of those holy friars and holy sisters, and they left 
them there, taking away great consolation in their hearts and holy 

" Then, after a long space of time, St. Francis, St. Clare, and their 
companions, once more returning to themselves and feeling fortified by 
their spiritual nourishment, gave no more thought to the nourishment of 
their body." 

The embers of the great fire that inflamed the woods of Santa Maria 
degli Angioli, that burnt between the seas and the sky of the privileged 
peninsula like the glow hidden in the heart of two great sapphires, had 
not yet died out when the Divine poet was born. No wonder that he 
turned to it like the men of Assisi ; no wonder that the element of un- 
reality in him was attracted to that fulcrum of mysticism ; no wonder that 
his strong, direct, yet tender spirit was attracted by the shape and the 
manner and the impalpably surviving breath of those who had produced 
the Cantico a Frate Sole, who had made their brothers and sisters of the 
innocent wild beasts of the woods and of the green things of the earth. 


The May Book 

The embers of the great fire out of which came the Vita Nuova have not 
died out yet. Although it is generally detrimental to one's sense of 
things beautiful, to one's general sense of enjoyment of poetic things, to 
cultivate a mania for obscure meanings and teachings which the artist in 
his pure artistic effort never meant to impart, yet I cannot help thinking, 
after this dip into the inner workings of a high mind, after this glimpse 
into the gentleness of a strong nature, that it would not be bad if the 
spirit that Dante exhales in his love-poems were to brush past us again, 
leaving something behind it. I cannot help thinking that it would do 
much for the ugly dryness and undue, misdirected, and often perfectly 
useless egotism of this age, to take an occasional leaf out of the love-book 
and the great heart of Dante Alighieri. 

1 50 

By Mortimer Men pes 

e Coming of Marguerite 

(For a Little Girl's Birthday) 

When father and mother went to buy 

A little girl up in the sky, 

An angel bade them take their choice 

Of many little girls and boys. 

They really didn't want a boy, 

They thought a girl was sweeter far, 

O yes ! a hundred times more sweet, — - 

Though they were tempted very sore 

By a most cunning little lad, 

Who since has come to live next door, 

And often plays with Marguerite. 

Yes ! Marguerite — for though they took 

Quite a long time to look and look, — 

For you can easily understand 

You don't buy little girls off hand !— 

They very soon made up their mind 

And thus was Marguerite assigned, 

And sent, celestial express, 

To her terrestrial address. 


The May Book 

Tis seven years ago to-day — 

For Marguerite to-day is seven — 

Since Marguerite came down from heaven : 

She cried a little, leaving there, 

But the angel said she needn't care, 

Because where she was going- to, 

It was a kind of heaven too ; 

And, though it is so long ago 

Since Marguerite came in the snow, 

I think if I should need to ask 

The way to heaven any day, — 

Well, I'd ask Marguerite the way. 



The Soul's Discovery 

I have found Thee, O God ! 

Not in cold temples made with human hands, 
But in the broad beneficence of skies, 

And in the flowering-time of meadow lands. 

I have heard Thy Voice, 
Not in the pauses of a priestly prayer, 
But in the tender whispering of the leaves, 
And in the daily breathings of the air. 

I have felt Thy Touch, 
Not in the rush of world's delight or gain, 
But in heart-breaking agony and tears, 

And in the slow pulsations of strong pain. 

I have known Thy Love, 
Not when earth's flattering friends around me smiled, 
But in deep solitude of desolate clays, — 

Then wast Thou very gentle with Thy child ! 
1 5 5 

The May Book 

I have seen Thy Face, 
Not only in the Great Light of the Cross, 
But throuo-h the darkness of forgotten graves 
And in the dawning recompense of loss. 

Yea, I have found Thee, God ! 
Thy breath doth fill me with a fire divine, — 
And were a thousand worlds like this my foes, 
The battle would be brief — the victory, mine ! 


February i^, 1901 


Contributed by Marion H. Spielmann 

Study of a Kitten 

By Henriette Ronner 



Lost Fairy Tales 



Evelyn Sharp 

PROTESTED, with more or less firmness, but no one 
took me seriously. This was not surprising, considering 
that by a quaint trick of circumstance I found myself in 
the midst of a shooting party bent on killing ; and I 
only wonder that I met with as much tolerance as I 
did. There were so many things that might have been said to me — the 
usual things, of course — things that never yet convinced a woman, nor, 
for that matter, ever made a man a sportsman either. The question of 
sport depends so much upon the point of view that it must of necessity 
remain untouched by argument ; and my shooting party knew that. So 
it neither scoffed nor took me seriously, but just left the subject alone — 
which was a treatment my hostess entirely declined to extend to myself. 

"You must come," she urged; "it isn't half so bad as you think. 
And it is wonderful how soon one gets used to it ! " 

" I'm not sure that I want to get used to it," I said, rather unhappily. 
I had an uncomfortable leeling that I was merely behaving like a coward, 
as I always do behave when it comes to facing this subject of killing 
things for fun. The fact that the gentlest-hearted men one knows always 
kill things for fun is upsetting, too, to one's theories. 


Lost Fairy Tales 

" I used to feel just as you do," continued my hostess, sympatheti- 
cally. " Now I don't mind a bit." 

My hostess is a woman who would be unhappy for a week if she 
heard that somebody in another county underfed his dogs. I looked at 
her as she cheerfully made her last remark, and felt more convinced than 
ever that this love of sport was a thing beyond my understanding. It 
seemed as though some people must have a dumb spot in their sensibilities, 
like the blind spot in most people's sight. I gave it up at last, and 
offered no resistance to my tempter's final plea. 

"It will be beautiful in the woods to-day," she said, coaxingly. 

Whether a sort of feeling that death lay behind it all helped the effect 
of the woods by its grim contrast, I do not know ; but it would have been 
difficult to imagine a more fairy-finished picture than the one that met us, 
when we walked up the green slope towards the brown and ruddy fringe 
along the crest of it. We had not joined the men till after lunch, so the 
day had had time to ripen. The sun slanted through the trees. at us, as 
we came up the hill, and painted the leaves a deeper red than the autumn 
had already done. There was a beauty everywhere that held one 
breathless. The wood itself was stilled by it, and not so much as a rustle 
disturbed the hush in the air as we assembled on the edge of the brush- 
wood — eight of us with guns to break the spell of it all. 

I was handed over to one of the party, who declared for my comfort 
that he never killed anything — a promise he afterwards entirely failed to 
fulfil — and we went across and stood where the trees ended, on the 
further side of the covert. The same curious hush settled down upon 
everything as soon as we got away from the others ; and I caught myself 
growing nervously impatient for the very thing I dreaded to see. 

"Perhaps," I suggested, in faint hopefulness, "there will not be any- 
thing to kill, after all." 

The wood sent back a piteous answer to my hope. The wonderful 
stillness was rent all at once by an outburst of hideous yells. Louder 
and louder grew the turmoil, as the line of beaters swept ruthlessly on 
towards us ; and little clatters of shot, now on one side, now on the other, 
marked the result of their attack on the brushwood. Then my companion, 
who had been casually talking to me through all the noise and clamour, 
suddenly sprang on the alert. 

What followed was so swift and bewildering that events seemed to 
lose their coherence. A whir overhead, a gun that flashed to left and 

J 59 

The May Book 

right, a flicker of loose feathers across the blue ; then a thud — two thuds 
— quite near ; it was just that, and no more. Yet there was more ; for 
death lay on the grass in two red-gold spots of colour. The autumn was 
lavish with its paint-brush this afternoon. 

" It wasn't so bad as you expected, was it ?" some one said to me, 
when we all met, a minute later. 

I found myself laughing reassuringly. The truth was that I could 
not contradict what was said. It was not nearly so bad as I had 
expected. The discovery annoyed me a little ; it puzzled me dreadfully, 
too, but I could not explain it away. There lay the two dead pheasants ;. 
I had actually seen 'them shot as they made their wild dash for freedom. 
Yet it did not seem to matter. The justifiable whipping of a dog had 
often mattered far more ; so had the scolding of a child. It was all very 
confusing. I wondered vaguely whether I had happened at last upon 
the dumb spot in my sensibilities. 

In the next drive I followed my hostess and her husband. We 
walked with the beaters, and the birds did not come our way much. 
Suddenly a startled rabbit joggled through the underwood on our left. 
It reached the open just ahead of us, and stood there panting, as if the 
noise and clatter bearing down upon it from behind made a confusion in 
its brain that was paralysing. Then the beaters came up with it, and the 
small grey beast was driven across the path in a panic. But it had 
scarcely made a couple of leaps in its frantic race for shelter before it 
pulled itself up with a jerk, so abruptly that it pitched right forward on its 
head. I suppose there was a shot, but I did not hear it ; I only noticed 
that sudden pitch forward, as the scurrying animal tried to escape. 
Afterwards, it recovered its balance sufficiently to scrape itself along a 
few inches further with its front paws ; then it gave up the attempt with a 
kind of sob, and rolled over — a little quivering morsel of woodland 

Then I knew how much the dumb spot in my sensibilities was worth. 
I knew why I had not minded seeing the pheasants die. Pheasants are 
the mushroom lords of the wood ; it is not theirs by birthright, they do 
not even make an honest living out of it. They are mere aristocrats 
who have been put there to be ultimately shot at, and are fed in return 
for their complaisance ; they have no business to object if their artificial 
life is ended by an artificial death. 

But rabbits are a different matter altogether. Nobody has ever made 

1 60 

Lost Fairy Tales 

a bargain with them; they expect nothing from anybody except the 
permission to live. They take what comes, and are inordinately humble 
about it ; when there is food they eat it, when there is none they starve 
just as uncomplainingly. They are absurd little beasts enough, but the 
poetry as well as the humour of the wood is theirs ; they know all the 
secrets of it, all the things we pretend to know, the things that make 
dreams and stories and poetry. It is much more than inhuman to kill 
them ; it is an impertinence. The pitiable little creature, waiting over 
there in the long grass for the dogs to fetch it, had probably taken away 
with it a better fairy story than will ever be written down. 

" You won't feel bad about the pheasants now that you have got over 
the first shock ! " my hostess was assuring me. 

I turned my back on the small grey spot in the grassy path, and 
sighed for a lost fairy tale. 

" No," I answered truthfully ; " I shall not feel bad about the 



By Farcalladen Moor 

' You'll travel far and wide, dear, but you'll come back again, 
You'll come back to your father and your mother in the glen, 
Although we should be lyin' 'neath the heather grasses then — 
You'll be comin' back, my darlin' ! 

' You'll see the icebergs sailin' along the wintry foam, 
The white hair of the breakers, and the wild swans as they roam ; 
But you'll not forget the rowan beside your father's home — 
You'll be comin' back, my darlin' ! 

'New friends will clasp your hand, dear, new faces on you smile ; 
You'll bide with them and love them, but you'll long for us the whil 
For the word across the water, and the farewell by the stile — 
For the true hearts here, my darlin' ! 

' You'll hear the wild birds singin' beneath a brighter sky, 
The roof-tree of your home, dear, it will be grand and high ; 
But you'll hunger for the hearthstone where, a child, you used to lie 
You'll be comin' back, my darlin' ! 


By Farcalladen Moor 

"And when your foot is weary, and when your heart is sore, 
And you come back to the moor that spreads beyand your father's door, 
There'll be many an ancient comrade to greet you on the shore, 
Whin you're comin' back, my darlin' ! 

4< You'll stoop to kiss the heather, you will stand and bless the sun, 
And you'll whisper through the morning that your travel is all done — 
Don't falter and turn cold, dear, if answer there be none, 
At your comin' back, my darlin' ! 

" For the hillock cannot cover, and the grass it cannot hide 
The love that never changeth, whatever wind or tide ; 
And though you cannot hear us, we'll be standin' by your side — 
You'll be comin' back, my darlin' ! 

" O, there's no home like the old home, there's no pillow like the breast 
You slumbered on in childhood, like a young bird in the nest — 
We are livin' still and waitin', and we're hopin' for the best — 
Ah, you're comin' back, my darlin' ! " 


[Note. — Three verses of the above were originally published in 
" Pierre and His People."- G. P.] 


"In Zanadu did Kubla Khan 
A stately pleasure-dome decree : 
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
Through caverns measureless to man 
Down to a sunless sea. 
So twice five miles of fertile o-round 
W ith walls and towers were girdled round : 


And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills 
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ; 
And here were forests ancient as the hills, 
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery." 



Sketched by H.R.H. Prince Purachatra of Siam 



Paris 1900 

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All Goods marked in plain figures, and supplied at manu- 
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All Diamonds are of the Purest Water, and 
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Show Rooms: 112 REGENT STREET, LONDON, W. 




Ja s - Hennessy & Co.'s 
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The above is a portrait of the Sole Proprietor of the Brand 


Doctors should be aware that 


is a special preparation, quite distinct from ordinary " Bovril," and 
more highly concentrated. It is 


and consequently acceptable to the most fastidious palate. 

For patients who object to "Bovril" on account of its salt flavour, Doctors might order 
" INVALID BOVRIL," which can be obtained from any Chemist. 

THE LANCET, writing of two special analyses, the first an analysis of Special Invalid 
Bovril, and the second one of a good home-made beef-tea, remarks that " in considering 
the question of relative nutriment, regard must, of course, be paid to the amount of water 
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the Invalid Bovril yielded, according to the analysis from THE LANCET 
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" To give beef-tea to a sick person is to give him a stone when he asks for bread." 

BOVRIL LIMITED, Food Specialists and 

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Contractors to His Majesty's and Foreign Governments. 
Vice-Chairman: G. LAWSON JOHNSTON. 
Consulting Physician : WILLIAM R. SMITH, Esq., M.D., D.Sc, F.R.S. Edin. 



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The Patent Front Hob "Pitt" fire-place as shown at the Charing Cross Hospital exhibit, Earl's Court Exhibition, 1899. 


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Women and Children's Hospital, Leeds. 
Royal Infirmary, Derby. 
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Passmore Edwards Cottage Hospital, Tilbury. 
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His life was gentle, and the elements so mix'd in him, that Nature might stand up and say to all the world, "This was a man." — Shakespeare. 

" He was almost as tender-hearted as a woman. ' I have not willingly planted a thorn in any man's bosom,' he was able to say. His patience was 
inexhaustible. He loved Manliness, Truth and Justice. He despised all Trickery and Selfish Greed. . . . Yielding and accommodating in non-essentials, 
he was inflexibly firm in principle or position deliberately taken. 'Let us have faith that right makes right. . . . Come what will, I will keep my faith 
with friend or foe.' Benovelence and Forgiveness were the basis of his character. His World-Wide Humanity is aptly embodied in a phrase of his second 
inaugural: ' WITH MALICE TOWARD NONE, WITH CHARITY FOR ALL.' HIS NATURE WAS DEEPLY RELIGIOUS, but belonged to no denomination. He 
had Faith in the eternal justice and boundless mercy of Providence, and made the golden rule of Christ his practical creed. . . . ARCHITECT of his own 
Fortunes, rising with every opportunity, mastering everv emergency, fulfilling every duty, he not only proved himself pre-eminently the man for the 
hour, but the signal benefactor of posterity. As Statesman, Ruler and Liberator, CIVILISATION WILL HOLD HIS NAME IN PERPETUAL HONOUR."— 
Col. J. G. Nicoly, Encyclopedia Britannica. 

The following extracts are from the sublime poem, "Oh ! why should the Spirit of Mortal be proud?" his love of which has made it immortal. He 

said it was one of the finest productions of the English language : 


Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying 

A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, 
Man passes from life to his rest in the grave. 

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall 

Be scattered around and together be laid ; 
And the young and the old, the low and the 

Shall moulder to dust, and together shall die. 

The hand of the king that sceptre hath borne, 
The brow of the priest that mitre hath worn, 
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the 

Are hidden and lost in the depths of the 

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, 
The herdsman who climb'd with his goats to 
the steep, 

The beggar who wander'd in search of his 

Have faded away like the grass that we tread. 

The saint who enjoy'd the communion of 

The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven, 
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, 
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. 

For we are the same our fathers have been ; 
We see the same sights our fathers have seen ; 
We drink the same stream, and we feel the 
same sun, 

And run the same course that our fathers have 

They died — ay ! they died ; and we things 

that are now, 
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, 
Who make in their dwellings a transient abode, 
Meet the changes they met on their pilgrim- 
age road — 

'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a 

From the blossom of health to the paleness of 

From the gilded saloon to the bier and shroud, 
Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 

Here hath been dawning Another blue 'day : Think, wilt thou let it Slip useless away ? — T. Carlyle. 




It is not too much to say its merits have been published, tested and approved literally from Pole to Pole, and that its cosmopolitan popularity to-day presents one oj 
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Ok Cape to Cairo" Coat. 

The accompanying sketch shows the Front View of this 
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The accompanying sketch shows the Front View, with Vnke.Jof 
this most unique and successful Garment, made in exclusive Cloths, 
specially manufactured for Messrs. Fisher & Sons, comprising Covert 
Coatings, Herring-bone Cheviots, Reversible Tweeds, Whipcords, &c. 


Clx Inverness Cloak." 

Made in Fancy Cheviots, Reversible Tweeds, Meltons, Box Cloths, &c. 

**n receipt of a London Business reference "Cape to Cairo' Cuats 
and u Inverness Cloaks" 


to any part of the United Kingdom, carriage paid. Size round bust 
under arms only required. 

Patterns, Sketches, and Self '- Measurement Forms for all kinds of garments, sent post free to any part of the World. 


Goldsmith, Siluersmith, and Jeweller 



/Iftafcer of Specialities ano IHovclties in all fcinos of artistic Xcatber (Sooos, flMxrto Jframes, &c. 
©tspatcb ^ojes, 3cwel ano Writing Cases, &c. &c. 





Moss Green Morocco Lined, Silk and Velvet to Match, Complete in 10 inch Bag, £i I ns.; ninch, £n 18s. od. ; 12 inch, £12 5s. Also In Pigskin, 10 inch, £12 10s. 
1 1 inch, £12 15s. ; 12 inch, £12 18s. 6d. Also made in Crocodile Skin, or any colour Leather to Order 

The beauty of Silver, Plate and Brasses is entirely dependent upon the 
brilliance of their polish, and it is of the utmost importance that 
these goods should be treated with a really good polish or 
paste. There is nothing better for the purpose than Globe 
Metal Polish or Plate Powder, both of which are 
magical in effect and produce a mirror like surface 
without the slightest exertion. 

The Globe Furniture Polish is the equal of the Globe Metal Polkh 
for its specific purpose, a"d still remains uncclrp cd for imparting 
an incredibly brilliant anH lasting polish to all kinds of Furni- 
ture, Papier Mache, Patent 1 ealher, Varnished and En- 
amelled Goods, &c. These Polishes are obtainable at 
all <»rocers, or blores, at prices to suit everybody. 

RAIMES & CO-, Stockton. on , Tees, and Bow, London, E. 

1 0 



An Essay on certain Stipple Engravers and their Work in Colour. 

Compiled, Arranged and Written by Julia Frankau. Illustrated with 51 Characteristic Pictures 
in Monochrome, and one in Colours, printed from copper plates. Price £8 8s. net. 

" A sumptuous and beautiful volume containing a charming collection of engravings. . . . A useful contribution in a little explored but highly characteristic 
branch of English art.'' — Westminster Gazette. 

A YEAR IN CHINA, 1899-1900. 


Late Hon. Attache" to H.M. Legation in Peking. 
With Illustrations and Maps. 8vo, 8s. 6d. net. 

" A most admirable volume, well written, freshly observed, and interesting on every 
page. " — Westminster Gazette. 

" We have nothing but praise for this most interesting volume." — Pall Mall Gazette. 






Extra Crown 8vo, Illustrated Edition, white buckram, gilt 
edges, 8s. 6d. net ; Ordinary Edition, 6s. 


By the Author of" Elizabeth and her German Garden." 
Extra Crown 8vo, Illustrated Edition, while buckram, gilt 
edges, 8s. 6d. net ; Ordinary Edition, 6s. 







With Portrait. 8vo, 10s. net. Illustrated Edition, extra 
Crown 8vo, 14s, net. 


Recent Successful Novels 

^ At? nrTTT/~>TJT 















75,000. VIA CRUCIS 












44,000. YOUNG APRIL 




1 1 


A Typewriter 

Is far speedier than the pen. 
Its work is far more legible. 

Typewritten letters are more easily checked, filed, and looked up than hand-written documents. 

The Typewriter 


Remington Typewriter. 

It is simple in construction, and embodies the best devices applicable to the typewriter. 
Hence it is thoroughly reliable. 

Unpractical devices, however fascinating in appearance, are rigidly excluded from the Remington. 

It is made of the best materials, under the closest supervision, and thus each individual machine is 
up to the high standard of excellence established by the manufacturers. 

It is the machine for taking a number of copies at one writing. 

Explanatory Pamphlet, with full Illustrations, post free from 


ioo GRACECHURCH ST., EX.; 263 OXFORD ST., W. (West End Branch). 

1 2 





Manufacturers and Importers of 






Established 1789 





Manufactured and Supplied by us to the Admiralty, the War Office, and General Post Office; the Hospital Ships 
"Princess of Wales," "Spartan," and "Trojan"; the Imperial Yeomanry; the Royal Scottish Red Cross 
and Welsh Hospitals; the Royal Infirmary, Edinburgh; the General Hospitals, Birmingham 
Wolverhampton, Worcester, Rotherham, Bristol ; the Mayo Native Hospital, Calcutta 
the General Hospital, Launceston, Tasmania; the Children's Hospital, Adelaide 
South Australia, &c. ; and a large number of Hospitals, Medical 
Men, and X Ray Workers in all Parts of the World 


Feb. 25th. A Doctor writes from an Hospital at the seat of war as follows: 
" I have done excellent work out here, and your coil is everything that one could wish." 

March 18, 1901. A Doctor writes from a Liverpool Hospital: 
" Last week we showed some successful cases of Lupus healed by X Rays at the Medical Institute, 
and your apparatus came in for very favourable criticisms by numerous medical men there, and I think it 
is generally conceded we have the best apparatus in Liverpool." 

April 4, 1901. A Doctor writes from Glasgow: 
" I have shown the coil to several of my friends, who are more than pleased with it." 

We are now supplying Mr. Mackenzie Davidson's New Mercury Break, also 
his Stereoscopic, Fluoroscopic, and Localising Apparatus 

Oup List, with Practical Hints to Beginners, sent Post Free on application 

HARRY W. COX, Ltd., 9, 10 and II Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane, W.C. 





This is a matter of common experience, but the " why and wherefore " are subjects of 
knowledge to the few only who have studied and thought of the question. In spite 
of the general recognition of the immense importance of this matter, it is one upon 
which a widespread and lamentable ignorance prevails. There is, it is true, a growing 

feeling with mothers that 

Farinaceous Foods are 
Bad for Infants, 

but this fact is only being learnt slowly as the result of a dearly bought experience, 
which is being paid for by the lives of thousands of little ones. 




MELLIN'S FOOD so changes the character of Cow's Milk, that the mixture 
shows the closest relationship in composition and properties to 


Sample and Pamphlet on "The Feeding- of Infants and Growing- Children" free from 




Royal Palace Hotel, W. 


BALLS, &c. 

0 » 0 

Hcknowlebgeb tbe jfinest xn Xon&on 


By acquiring a Life Annuity. 





Funds in hand exceed £4,500,000. Claims Paid exceed £40,000,000. 


DAMAGE BY FIRE on Property of almost every description, 
at Moderate Rates. 

PRIVATE INSURANCES.— Policies issued for two years and 
upwards are allowed a liberal Discount. 

whether the property be set on fire or not. 






Apply for full Prospectus to W. N. WHYMPER, Secretary. 


LADIES should see 


Full assortment of 


Dress Fabrics. 



&c. &c. 


says "Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News." 

Extract from Madge's 
Letter in Trtiih, 
4th August, 1898. 

" Every dressmaker 
ought to leave out a 
bit of selvedge some- 
where with the ' Pirle' 
stamp on it, as this 
affords an absolute 
guarantee for the 
wearer. The pro- 
prietors undertake to 
make good any ma- 
terial so stamped that 
has been actually 
damaged by rain.'' 

Extract from Lady s 
Pictorial. [| | 

"The new " Pirle ' 
finished sittings for 
the making of cos- 
tumes in which you 
can be independt-nt 
of the weather, for 
they will never be 
any the worse for 
either a slight shower 
or a steady down- 

"PIRLE" Finished Cloths can be obtained from the Leading Drapers 










(Regd.) Wfy y>urs 

No,of course's 
hasnotshrunkr @> "VIYELLA 



has the 
on the 

5 yards. 


Remember that 



Is Waterproof 

and therefore 

For Nightdresses, Dressing Gowns, Knickers, Children's Frocks, <k 


To be obtained from the Leading: Drapers, or name of nearest sent on application to 



The only "Grand Prix" given at Paris Exhibition, 1900, to English 
Silk Manufacturers was awarded to